


Southern Comfort

by inkandimpalas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant!Castiel, Alternate Universe, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Frottage, M/M, Porn With Plot, sort of, southern setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandimpalas/pseuds/inkandimpalas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Castiel is a bookkeeper for Novak Accounting in New York City when he decides, out of the blue, that he no longer wants to work for his family anymore and ends up running off to Fairhope Alabama to work for his ex flame's brother in a run-down kennel. In a slow revealing of his past relationship, Castiel must come to terms with his reasons for leaving, and all while attempting to not be physically attracted to Dean's muscular younger brother who just so happens to be his boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Bit of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this is predominantly Sastiel for the most part. I've been listening to a lot of country music lately and I thought, to heck with it. 
> 
> UPDATE:
> 
> I now have a beta which is awesome. Miss Tsundwarf has been kind enough to start helping me with some of my grammatical errors and so forth seeing as I am quite the shitty editor, so she deserves much of my thanks.

Chapter 1:

“My name is Castiel Novak. I believe your brother referred me?”

It wasn't exactly what he expected, though he’d made sure to lower his expectations a little while before ever agreeing to the interview. And though he’d been as meticulous as usual – dressing in his tie and jacket and khaki overcoat that was just a little too large – he’d entered the kennel with hands in his pockets and a quizzical look upon his brow. 

Winchester Kennel was just about everything you could assume a kennel would be; loud, homey, filled with odd smells and odd objects. Nothing really reminiscent of any other prior job entry level equipment. The closest thing to technology so happened to be a beat up PC sitting on a green paint-chipped front desk strewn with more papers than he’d care to sort, though he supposed that was the work expected of him if he’d manage to find employment. Though the place was charming in a way that only a run-down, small-town, private-owed business could possibly depict, it was enough to sway the older man into a false sense of incompetency. If he’d been aware of the state of the kennel, he may have chosen something a little less over his head. 

Even still, the place did hold a certain amount of back country charm, what with the cracked open windows with holes in the screens and hanging lamp-lights that buzzed a soft white noise. Even the floors were a mess of scuffed up, raised hardwood that creaked with each step, signalling years of use and very little upkeep. Not that he was surprised much. The place could use some work. 

It only seemed to be amplified by the lilting bookshelves filled with dog-training manuals and specific breeds for dummies. The floor had wicker baskets filled with squeaky toys and tennis balls left untouched. Though he assumed they were there for a certain homely look, the aesthetic was a well-used one. 

Of course, it wasn’t really the front room that made him feel so out of sorts. Not really, when compared with the two figures lurking about the room, one being of the four-legged variety. A fluffy Australian Shepherd with orange and grey and white tufts of fur seeming to blend together over its medium sized body. And it sat, quite content, next to its slouching master, watching the blue-eyed man with a weathered eye and a long tongue lapping listlessly at air. 

The other was something of a more intimidating perspective. 

“My brother says you’re a tax accountant?” Sam Winchester asked, looking up from a stack of papers he’d been reading. And he was fascinating to behold, with his legs propelled up against the desktop, all too large for the wooden chair he’d managed to not break. “Not much work ‘round here for corporate types. I need a trainer, not a desk jockey.”

“Bookkeeper,” Cas corrected, though he was sure this was most likely an inappropriate answer. He continued anyway. “And I am a patient study.”

“Are you now?”

There was a pleasant tone to the younger man’s voice. A slight southern twang that made it warmer, less demanding, though his demeanour stated otherwise. When he looked up, there was a harshness in his brow that warranted respect. 

“Give me work and I won't fail you,” Cas stated plainly. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. Sam or himself. “Just give me that chance.”

The other looked at Cas suspiciously, lips pulled taut as if the information didn’t sit well, and Cas supposed this was what he deserved. After all, it wasn’t everyday a high-powered executive type decided to throw in the towel and start shovelling shit at a dog ranch in the middle of Fairhope, Alabama. At least, not as far as anyone had assumed probable what with the townspeople knowing each other on first name basis. Everyone but him, that was. 

“If I wasn’t in need of someone so badly, I wouldn’t usually be this quick to trust,” he said, standing then. And it seemed a much more fluid motion than the other assumed him capable of, what with his gaunt legs and heavily muscular upper body. “But I’m gonna go against my better judgment and trust you, Castiel Novak. I don’t want nor like to be disappointed.”

Castiel merely nodded, computing this information with a certain amount of incredulity. He was attuned to the other man now, keeping closely to the way he walked about the room, limber and sure-footed. Sam had drifted towards one of the baskets, grabbing an armful of toys in the curve of his thick forearms. 

When the young Winchester pulled back up he had that questioning look about his features again, brow arched. “So when can you start?”

“Whenever is most convenient for you.”

He seemed to like this answer, the edges of his lips raising as he let out an amused puff of air from his heavy chest. “Good. Come meet the dogs then.”

\--

It wasn’t as if he’d woken that day assuming he would quit his job. 

Castiel had been working finances for longer than he cared to remember, though he supposed tenure was what made him come so highly regarded in the residential community. Not much for corporate work, he’d managed his side-business whilst the rest of his prestigious family worked on bigger, more engrossing job opportunities with mass corporations. His preference came from work with families. Young couples with lots of money and no consensus on what to do with it, or elderly couples who still purchased everything in cash.

He most liked his work with struggling middle-class well-to-do people, but those were rare when the fees predetermined by his siblings/bosses were exorbitant to a fault. This left him not much to be desired, but the work was something he knew well, and a job was a job. His family was content, and he was content making sure they were just that. 

But that morning, like every morning for the past two months, he opened the door to his office feeling a certain amount of dread in his sinews. A weight that hadn’t been there before, and though it sung in a very low, near inaudible tone, it was still always playing in the back of his head. Leaving him distracted when he needed to focus. 

He knew he wouldn’t have done it if it were predetermined. Not after dropping the fountain pen he’d been tapping restlessly against the polished mahogany desk’s edge, having not really listened to the divorcee from Long Island talking in great detail about her rather expounded and completely frivolous spending. She looked up from the small mirror she’d been staring in, well-manicured nails stalling from the plucking motion as she’d picked at her overly painted lashes. 

“If you’ll excuse my departure, miss,” he said, tilting his head to her once. He’d slipped his overcoat on, grabbed the suitcase from below his desk and headed out the doors of that office for the last time without so much as another word. 

Yes, it hadn’t been something he planned. And though Gabriel had attempted to call him nonstop since his little episode, he’d avoided any contact with his family at all costs. Discontenting the Novak’s and the Milton’s was not something he’d chanced before, so quitting them cold turkey seemed the only likely option. If he was going to let the weight go, he had to cut it off completely, and if that meant connection with his family then that was how things were to be. 

But, of course, this left him with a rather interesting dilemma. Now jobless, and somewhat homeless what with his having roomed with Gabriel in a beautiful flat he’d cosigned the lease on, Cas had found himself staring down a road he’d never chanced to look before. One where he’d have to do something that was so unaccustomed to his being he feared it the moment it was too late to turn back. 

Which was why he ended up at the bar that night, beer in hand, waiting for the one person who he believed had spurned the change in him. 

“Cas, buddy,” the man said, slumping down in a seat next to him, hand grasping his shoulder pleasantly. “What’s going on? You seemed pretty out of it when you called me earlier.”

The older man looked up from the counter just in time to catch the quick look of concern edging its way across the younger man’s brow. And he was as breathtaking as usual, with pleasant hazel-green eyes peering out from below a thick sheen of lashes. Dean Winchester sat next to him, legs splayed in that comfortable sitting position, elbows resting against the countertop as he gestured for the nearest bartender. Quick, easy. A revelation in a leather jacket. 

“Now what could be so important you called me out to Queen’s on a Thursday night?” he asked then when the pint of Bud had been placed in front of him. A crooked smile was plastered across his perfect face, jaw firm and brow unwrinkled. God, was he ever beautiful. 

“I quit my job,” Cas stated plainly. No hint of remorse. 

Dean, who’d been taking long draught from the glass in front of him, nearly choked when the words had been said, sputtering when he turned fully towards the man in question. His eyes were impossibly wide. 

“ _You did what_?”

“I went to work this morning, realized I wanted more and quit,” he said, taking his own beer in hand. A bottle of Corona. If it hadn’t been for the aforementioned statement, he was sure he would’ve gotten jested over the choice. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Dean was lost for words, mouth gapping open for a few short seconds before closing and swallowing back a draught of air. “Well hell, Cas.”

There was a long silence then, Cas letting the other take in the information given. It was the kind of duration that made his skin crawl in that uncomfortably tight manner, having had so few times to compare it with. He was not an impulsive type, and to feel the desperation that started to well within his joints, replacing out the heavy weight prior, was not a welcome distraction. 

“I need to get out of New York,” he stated finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know whereto, or how, but I have to get out.”

“Then I’ll help,” Dean said. 

\--

As it turned out, the older Winchester had a brother quite far from the hustle and bustle of NYC. One that could give him work if he needed, though it was nothing grand like the office position he’d had in his own section of the business. And though Castiel had been sad to leave without word, he was glad the moment he boarded the train the next day with a rucksack of clothes he’d managed to smuggle out of his share of the apartment. Everything else would stay, fixtures for Gabriel to toss away or sell. It was none of his concern anymore.

It was surprisingly easier to let go of New York and his family than he’d initially thought possible. The difficult part was Dean. 

“I’ve got an old plantation house next to the bay,” he was saying as they drove towards Grand Central. Cas had ridden in the Impala only twice in his life, and though both times had been equally significant, this may have been the most. “It’s a real fixer-upper, but she still stands and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“I appreciate it, Dean.”

“You’ll have to try the Dairy Freeze when you’re down there, too,” he added, smiling quickly. There was a ghost of a laugh bubbling up behind his lips. An awkward, knee-jerk reaction. “And real southern cooking. Grits and chicken-friend steak. Ma used to make fresh squeezed lemonade and it was the best you’d ever taste.”

“I will.”

He jutted his eyes over quickly, shuffling in his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel spasmodically. He had the look of concern about him, and it was palpable in the jauntiness of the statements prior. Just, Cas didn’t know how to say whatever it was that needed to be said. It wasn’t as if they were really ending anything. A flicker, maybe, but holding on to burnt out wicks was not something he found himself willing to do. At least, not until he was alone, on that train, where he could reminisce in silence. 

“I’ll come down as soon as I can get time off work,” Dean said finally, voice an octave lower. A little less high-strung. “And we’ll talk. Really talk.”

Castiel smiled. “I would like that, Dean.”

\--

But here he was, two days on a train and countless miles spent remembering what it was to feel something alive in his core for the first time in a long time, now standing in the middle of a hall filled with cages and barking dogs. 

“These rows here are our permanent residents,” Sam Winchester said, patting the tops of each cage with a heavy open palm. The dogs seemed to get louder when he got near, making the whole experience all the more overwhelming. “Bailey, Princess, Mr. Rogers, and Periwinkle. Their owners check up on ‘em once a month at best so we spend plenty of time making sure they’re good n’ happy.”

Sam gestured for him to follow, then, leading along the right-hand side where the more inhabited cages sat. And boy was it a strange sight to behold. The hall itself was wide, and high. Almost stable-like, though the floor was linoleum and the little bit you could see of the walls themselves were painted a faded baby blue. And though there must have been over fifty cages, stacked in sections of two, there appeared to be only thirteen dogs in total, not counting the permanent residents, as the younger Winchester had called them. 

“Over here we’ve got our part-timers. These guys get dropped off during business hours or for weekend parties and vacationing. On a busy week, we can get up to thirty, so you best be patient with them. It’s not easy work.”

Castiel merely nodded, watching as the younger man unclasped the latches to the last five cages with that one free hand. Each dog scuttled out in sequence, heading towards the large door at the end of the hall, all tails and barking and hopping about with far too much energy. The Australian Shepherd followed closely beside Sam’s ankles, disciplined as it seemed to be. 

“You comin’, New York?”

Next on the tour was the fenced in backyard. And by backyard, it was more a mass couple acre plot of land bordered by trees and sectioned into three separate masses by a well-kept picket fence. The grass was neatly cut in the right-hand slot, trimmed to perfection and surprisingly green what with the state the building had been in. The left one had an obstacle course that Castiel could only assume was for training purposes. 

“We take the dogs out three times a day minimum,” Sam said, opening the rusted gate to the middle section. It was the most empty of the lots, what with the patchy weeds and the browning areas. There were a few trees too, that had never been torn up, growing strong and partial across the expanse. “I run ‘em in the morning too, and sometimes at night if it don’t get too hot. I’d suggest something a little lighter than a suit and tie.”

Castiel looked down at his thick overcoat, feeling suddenly and unbearably burdened by it under the hot slick of sun now beating down on him. It’d felt this way ever since he got off that train, what with the thick Alabama air making it hard to breathe, and harder to think. Everything sort of slowed down to a snail pace in his head, too stuffed up with the scent of a blooming, ninety-degree spring. 

It would have been the perfect outfit for April in New York. 

“I will consider my apparel next time,” he said, delving his hands into his pockets. “Though I do not have much in the way of casual clothing.”

Sam didn’t even appear to be somewhat surprised by this. He’d been wearing a red and white flanneled button-down, sleeves rolled all the way up his tanned forearms. That paired with holed jeans that held to his hips by what appeared to be some sort of magic made the whole ensemble that of comfort. Sam Winchester looked at home in his clothes. 

“There’s a store down on Main,” he said, eyeing Castiel with what appeared to be feigned interest, eyes dropping down for just a second before dragging back up coolly. It was something the older man ignored, indignant to the suggestion it held. “Though I suppose you’d best be getting out to Mobile if you’re looking to sort out your wardrobe, New York. I wouldn’t want you getting that nice suit of yours all covered in mud.”

It wasn’t a terribly nice suit to begin with, but Castiel wasn’t about to tell him otherwise. 

Instead, he watched as the younger man turned back towards the fence, tossing each toy out where the dogs scooped them up in sequence. When he’d finished this, he wiped his hands on his jeans, clasped the gate tightly, then turned back towards Cas. He had a grin now plastered across his cheeks, palms resting against his hips in a way that made it even more obvious how significant the ratio between his chest and his waist was. 

“So,” he said, lip quirking just a little bit further on the left side. “Any questions?”

“Only one. When do I start?”

\--

It was decided that Cas would begin his trial-run the next morning, bright and early. Seven on the dot, as Sam had put it mildly. The convenience of a kennel was that it was always open when you needed it. So Cas, begrudgingly, agreed to start as soon as was absolutely necessary. After discussing a few particulars about employment, Sam offered to drive him over to the old plantation he’d be staying at, seeing as it’d been only a good five minute drive away. Twenty minute walk if he walked quickly. 

Cas had visited the old plot before heading over to the Winchester Kennel in the first place, stopping only to drop his things off before taking the long, though much needed, stroll along the old, overgrown lane. And it seemed a perfect little stretch, thanks to the residence being purchased in a time where he assumed Dean considered staying in the south. Why he hadn’t sold it was a story Cas would most likely never hear, though he wanted to. He wanted to know everything when it came to Dean. 

Which was why, when he hopped out of Sam’s old Chevy pick-up, he’d taken to rolling up his sleeves and heading in for battle. 

The property itself was more than just a fixer-upper, though Cas assumed it may have been in a better state the last time Dean had seen it, what with overgrowth bordering damn near uncontrollable levels. The paint job on the place was spotty at best, and there were climbing hydrangea’s nearly blacking out the Doric columns along the front of the building. 

Not only that but there were windows that were shattered most likely from squall season, and the porch sagged in the middle thanks to its rotting foundation. Aesthetically, the place was a complete wreck. 

Cas could deal with wrecks though. He’d seen ruin and fought ruin. He’d pulled people from the brink of bankruptcy and worse. There was nothing he wouldn’t be able to repair, and the plantation, he decided, would be his first real project. 

Fortunately, though the house itself had very little available in regards to a strong structure, it did come fully stocked. At least, as fully stocked as could be imagined when it came to blankets and towels, dishes and cutlery. It was a mess, to be quite frank, what with the furniture itself being almost insufferably covered in a thick coat of dust, the carpets stained grey and the creaky wood floors cloudy and stained. But the place still had electricity and, surprisingly enough, running water. He could make due with what he had. 

That first night, he spent his time clearing out the master bedroom, washing the sheets by hand in the bathtub which was, by far, his favourite fixture discovered. A mass body with copper handles that could shine like new pennies if given the right kind of treatment. He’d also unmasked some of Dean’s old clothes from the en suite's walk-in closet, though most had been damaged from moth holes. After rummaging through it long enough he found himself a few pairs of jeans and a couple shirts easily wearable till he could get himself out to Mobile, as was Sam’s suggestion.

He hung everything out to dry on the rusty old clothesline out back, jury-rigging his own pins with pens and elastic bands he'd had stashed in his briefcase. 

There was surprisingly quite a bit of canned food too, of which he took full advantage of. He cooked up a bowl of beans that he scarfed down mechanically after finishing the first round of laundry, enough to satiate the hunger but also enough to make him miss the ease and convenience of take-out menus and public transportation. 

When he went to bed that night, for the first time in a long time, he slept like a baby. 

The following morning was wrought with the sounds of an overly peppy pre-set ringtone he’d used as his alarm. The cellphone, which he’d ignored, now had over forty missed calls, and an additional set of nearly the same amount of text messages, all ranging from each sibling. Even Luke had sent him a brief ‘where are you’ email which made the severity of his disappearance a little more widely known. He turned his phone off anyways, not particularly ready to make known that he was no longer in the state. 

After a quick shower, he dressed in an old AC/DC t-shirt and pair of well-worn Levi’s. On a second inspection, though, in the cloudy door-mirror, he tossed on a blue flannel button-down. Something similar to what Sam had been wearing, though this one he left open and had hung loose on his shoulders. 

He ate a can of fruit-cocktail and headed to Winchester Kennel. 

\-- 

Arriving early was something Cas had done prudently and without fail. In regards to his newly acquired work, he showed promptly at 6:35, knocking at the front door of the building – which was pleasantly shaped like a barn had sprouted out of the back of a brick house. No one had answered, which wasn’t altogether surprising. Not after the specific instructions he’d been given. So he waited, instead, on the front step, resting elbows against his kneecaps and his chin against the backs of his hands. 

It wasn’t until 6:47 rolled around that he noticed a figure curving around the winding lane, surrounded by seven or eight smaller bodies. It took another three to discern Sam out to be the larger, and that the smaller figures were dogs, all leashed up around the lower half of the young Winchester’s torso.

To be honest, it had to have been one of the sexiest images Castiel had ever witnessed, not that he had much to compare it with, what with his sex-life being pretty well nonexistent. But he was sure even someone experienced could appreciate the visual stimulation put before him. 

Sam was fit, but not just the average, run-of-the-mill athletic sort of fit. Sam was fit in the way that he’d only imagined professional athletes could be with his perfectly sculpted chest and arms thick with heavy chords, glistening with perspiration. Not like Dean, who had that plump flesh around his lower half due to his damn near relentless love of pie. 

But boy did the younger Winchester know how to wear it, bare chested and hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. His sweatpants were low-slung, once again proving that even gravity held no grasp on his body. It accentuated how unrealistically tall he was. That moose-like in stature Dean used to joke about, he was a giant among men. 

He pulled out headphones, gliding into the gravelled parking in a few short strides. 

“Mornin’, New York!” Sam called when finally catching on to the looming presence on his front step. This triggered the Australian Shepherd to distance itself from the pack, unleashed as it bolted towards the awaiting Castiel. “Riot, get back here!”

“Riot?” Cas asked when the quick-footed dog nearly bounded straight into him. He held his hands out, though, effectively stilling and pacifying the Shepherd in a quick, easy move. “You certainly have an interesting name.”

By the time Sam had gotten in a good couple feet closer, Cas had already ruffled the panting dog’s head, smiling with just the corners of his lips. 

“Sorry, he’s not usually like that with strangers,” Sam said, panting. He was resting his hands against his knees, taking in heavy draughts of cooler morning air. 

“No harm, no foul, Sam Winchester.”

The younger man’s lips quirked up at the mentioning of his name, head shaking for a moment as if exasperated. “You always call everyone by their full name?”

Cas merely shrugged, turning his attention back towards the elated Shepherd in front of him. “Beats the city they come from.”

This brought the full smile out. 

After a minute or two of Sam catching his breath, and another ten spent on caging up the dogs he’d run that morning, the first part of the day began surprisingly different than he’d expected. Maybe because he had assumed he’d be armed with the PC, or filing cabinets which were something the front-room definitely needed. Just, when Sam had handed him the damn near dangerous looking scooper contraption whilst giving explicit instructions on where to find the wheelbarrow and where to dump the dog shit, did he realize just how fucked he was. 

It was not exactly the most exciting of tasks either. 

Scooping shit had always been something he would've deemed a pretty unfortunate task, but Alabama made it even more so. He wasn’t out for more than a good ten minutes before he was stripping layers off, tying the button up around his hips and using the hem of the t-shirt to dab away at the sweat from his brow that'd built up from exertion. The cloth still smelled musty when he put it to his face, but there was a trace there so subtle it was almost completely faded. A scent that was purely and distinctly Dean. 

“Damn,” he muttered, grimacing. 

By the time he’d cleared the only section specified, he’d managed to strip the t-shirt up over his head too, leaving it back on the gate after towelling the rest of his upper body off in the same manner as he had his face. It was not a good look on him, he realized. Not when his upper body had seen just about as much sun as the dusty insides of Dean’s plantation house. He felt dusty too, in a way. Stiff-necked and stiff-limbed in ways he never remembered himself being before. 

The air seemed to distract him from these thoughts, though. He sucked back big gulps of hot steam rather than the cooler draughts he’d been puffing back home on his cigarette breaks. Which was another thing he’d run surprisingly low on, not that that was probably a bad thing. Cigarettes were something he associated with New York. Here, in backwater, southern comfort, Fairhope Alabama, he couldn’t imagine needing one. 

At least, not until now, that was. 

He dumped the contents of the wheelbarrow in the dumpster along the side of the building before wheeling it back towards the back shed. He grabbed his shirts then, and headed inside for further instruction. 

It wasn’t altogether surprising, though, that he found himself quiet alone in the long kennel hallway, surrounded by barking dogs and musky smell of a well-used barn. He turned into the front room where he expected he might see Sam at the paint-chipped desk, scanning through papers or waiting on customers, but it had also been abandoned but for the half drank bottle of water left on its side near the computer. The only thing relatively amiss with the whole look of the place. 

“You work fast, New York.”

Cas turned around just in time to see the younger man coming through a side-door kitty-corner to the kennel entrance, a set of stairs visible behind him leading up into some unknown area he could only assume was the young Winchester’s living quarters. The reason he’d assumed it was merely for the fact that Sam came from it soaking wet, body beaded with small dew-droplets and hair clinging to his cheeks and forehead which he pushed back damply. The only stitch of clothing he happened to be wearing was a towel clinging to those anti-gravity hips. 

_Holy hell._

It wasn’t just a matter of Sam being attractive that made it so unintentionally awing, but the fact that, while the younger man passed around him, bicep nudging the top of his shoulder oh so mildly, it was Dean’s little brother who grabbed the water bottle. It was the ‘too smart for his own good’, chess playing, kind-hearted, animal loving little brother he’d heard countless stories about. Loving stories that made him feel he’d known a stranger when he looked at the creature that moved about, all languid muscle and pure, visceral sex. It wasn’t exactly the picture he expected, and surely not the one he was prepared to deal with. 

Even still, it was becoming increasingly more obvious that Sam was either completely oblivious to his own charm or he liked the attention enough to not care who it came from. 

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said, uncapping the water bottle with those long, perfect fingers. The suggestion left Cas aching in ways he hadn’t ached in a long time. “I’ll make you a real southern breakfast.”

And Castiel merely nodded, knowing full well he was completely in over his head.


	2. Jump Right In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas has an interesting confrontation with Sam, then embarks on his first day of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2. A little character development and lots of fun tension. So here's to the build-up.

Chapter 2: Jump Right In

_“You’re the representative for Singer Automotive?”_

_It was like every other Tuesday, colder than usual for early October though this hadn’t mattered much in the warmth of the office, space heater rattling in that pleasant way that always reminded him of chai lattes and thick cashmere scarves. It was the little things, like feeling the crisp air when he walked up those cement front steps, or cabbing home with the sky dusky and red along the city-line, that made the change in season so inviting. Winter in New York was like a fairytale._

_The man across from him looked as if he’d taken the full shock of the season’s first breath, what with his red-tipped ears and his leather-clad arms wrapping around that layered barrel chest. His legs were splayed in a comfortable slouch, mustard colored timberlands leaving dirt smudges and God knows what else on the white area rug. An unrefined, uncouth, man-child mechanic whose only redeeming quality just so happened to be a very fine pair of hazy green eyes and smooth, full lips that were awfully distracting._

_That and a voice like southern chocolate._

_“Er, yeah, Bobby sent me to deal with the financial stuff. He’s got some important clients right now so he’s been a little busy.”_

_Castiel merely nodded his head, flipping through the leather-bound folder he’d pulled out just before the younger man arrived. When he found the sheet he was looking for, he slipped it out slowly, careful not to crinkle the edges._

_This, of course, seemed to take long enough that it appeared to make the other man mighty uncomfortable. He shuffled in his seat once, then twice, mouth opening then closing briefly. After a few more seconds of this same silence, he spoke again. “I’m, uh-well, I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”_

_“Is that so?”_

_He nodded, only seeming to get more and more anxious with every second. He pulled at the collar of his green Henley, teeth nicking at that auspicious appendage of his. Too butch, some would think. Over-accommodating the image as if he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe that was what made him so terribly uncomfortable with silence._

_Cas could only smile at this briefly, curious but not enough to jeopardize his own sense of self preservation. “Well, Dean Winchester, in the stead of your aforementioned employer, I should inform you the state of the business’s financial affairs seem to be relatively grim, and I don’t put that mildly. Serious budgeting will be a necessity if you’re looking to turn a profit next quarter.”_

_Dean nodded again, though this time his jaw seemed tight with the new information. His brows furrowed, fingers flexing against the arms of the black leather accent chair. It was grave news, and it was enough to know the younger man obviously cared about what had been said enough to feel impacted by it._

_“What do I have to do?” he asked, voice as tight as his expression. “Just tell me and I’ll do it.”_

\--

If he would’ve been asked last week what he’d be doing on his Thursday morning, he could almost guarantee it wouldn’t have been sitting in a muggy loft above a dog kennel, listening to the sounds of hash-browns frying and a shirtless man whistling some peppy country tune. 

No, Cas was quite sure it’d be the last place he’d find himself. Not that he was complaining, of course. As much as it may not have been the most ideal of circumstances, he hadn’t felt trapped within his own chest since the moment he boarded that train. And maybe some of that was due to the fact that it had been a change. A movement that was so necessary when his behavior was beginning to turn self-destructive. He needed the out. 

And maybe some of it was due to the tall guy, flipping bacon and cracking eggs one-handed. 

“I hope you’re cool with heavy carbs,” Sam said, seeming to manage both turning on the coffeemaker and popping bread in the toaster at the same time. He looked so fluid when he moved. How he eased into each task made cooking breakfast look like an art form. “It’s not exactly the most heart healthy of meals.”

“Anything is good, thank you.”

He seemed pleased with this answer, stalling long enough to let his smile show before sweeping back into the motion of plating the fried eggs and the crispy potatoes. The thick cut bacon which was just a little too crispy, though Cas wasn’t about to complain. No, not when he was a few seconds away from eating the first home-cooked, not out of a can or a fast food joint, meal in a week. 

While Sam finished buttering the toast and pouring the mugs of black coffee, Cas took a little more time to appreciate the loft. The high-roofed, high-windowed, open-concept floor that had sky blue walls and leather, rustic furnishings. The younger Winchester had a coffee table that looked like it may have been a good hundred years old, covered in soiled newspapers that had coffee-cup rings surrounding their edges. A big flat screen TV hung over an electric fireplace, the only real modern looking aspect about the whole set up. It was so distinctly Winchester. 

He turned his eyes towards some of the folded, more well-used pieces of paper. The completed crossword puzzles that he couldn’t help but note were from the New York Times. It was quite obvious from the start that Sam Winchester was highly educated. Maybe more than he’d ever willingly let on, though it hadn’t surprised Cas more than when the older man relayed it back to the image of what had been formed from those long afternoons filled with stories upon stories. Of old times and new times, coffee and cigarettes. Of Dean and his endless, impulsive life. 

He blamed Dean for a lot of things. For most things, in fact. 

“Hey, earth to Cas.”

Castiel looked up just in time to catch the sight of Sam waving a hand in front of his face. He blinked, shaking his head before turning his eyes up to meet that of the younger man. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, New York,” he said, dropping the overfilled platter-like plate on the table in front of the older man. “Just eat. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started eating, which at first had been a slow mastication, letting the food settle for a moment before taking the next bite. But as each mouthful went down, he could feel the hunger growing, and the need to staunch it became more apparent. He bounded in on the hash browns with an added vigour not much like his regular self generally would. 

It must have been maybe a good five minutes before Sam spoke, pulling Cas’ attention from the strip of bacon he’d been tearing apart with his fingers. 

“Easy there, champ,” he said, lips pulling up at the corners in that charmingly obvious way. “Eat like that and you’re gonna be sick.”

Cas merely shrugged, none too worse for wear. He dropped the piece of bacon back on the platter, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans in a style he assumed would make him look more at home in his own clothes. “My apologies, Sam Winchester.”

“Don’t need to apologize to me.”

Sam gestured then towards the cup of coffee he left for the older man too, having snuck it some time after tossing the plate of food down. He was sipping at his own mug, and though large as it was, it still seemed dainty and small in his long, perfect fingers. “I don’t know what you take in your coffee. There’s cream in the fridge if you need it.”

“Black is fine. Thank you.”

It wasn’t until he took that first sip though that he realized how much he would have liked a good douse of cream. The coffee was strong. Stronger than he’d ever remembered making, nor drinking, and so thick you could stand a spoon in it. The classic Louisiana brew that left an ashy film on the roof of his mouth. He had to take a large bite of toast just to get rid of the bitterness that threatened to curdle his breakfast. 

“I like my coffee with a bit of a kick,” Sam smiled, and there was mischief there, clear as day. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Cas merely shrugged, brushing it off as he had the jest about his eating habits, taking another sip as if to prove his lack of concern. This, of course, was closely followed by another bite of the over-buttered toast, quick full-mouthed smile elapsing across his features. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the kind of breakfast he would have made himself, and sure the coffee was pretty close to as lethal as it could get, but Sam had offered him employment, and food, which was something he hadn’t expected. A little bit of good manners on his own part couldn’t hurt. 

“I appreciate the hospitality,” he said finally, resting the mug against his thigh, cupped between both hands. He looked at it with a pensive glance, choosing his words carefully as was his habit. “It was too kind.”

“No big thing, New York,” Sam replied, leaning forward now, elbows to knees. He placed his own mug on top of one of the soiled crossword puzzles, hands reaching up to form a small basket for his chin. There was something oddly mischievous in those familiar green eyes. “Though I must admit, my reasoning is far from honest. I mostly just wanted to get the chance to piece this puzzle a little more. To figure you out.”

Cas could feel his joints stiffen. “I see.”

There was a pause, and though brief as it was, it held a certain amount of impact for the older man whose back felt raised. Affronted, because this was the closest he had come to his secret world being infiltrated by a third party. Sam Winchester was a part of this merely for the fact that he was Dean’s brother, and whose only relation to Cas was through Dean. Just, whatever it was he had going with the older Winchester, he’d kept it safeguarded from the world. 

And yet, here Sam was, a quirk in his heavy brow and a lift in the corner of his perfect lip, seeming to be just as quick to learn as he was quick to want to understand. That made things somehow ten times more difficult. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me what I’ve figured out yet,” the younger man said, pushing the nearly dried out hair off his forehead, but for the still damp tips. He seemed quite comfortable with the breached topic. At least, comfortable enough to not look even somewhat affected by it which brought Cas to the assumption that maybe he didn’t know. Or he didn’t care. In any case, it was going to be pretty hard to avoid a conversation, especially when the circumstances for his being hired were still quite fuzzy. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to hearing your opinions, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” 

“I guess I’ll start with theories, then,” Sam said. By this time, he’d leaned back into the prior position, hooking that long leg back over the other, hands on the arms of his chair loosely. “I can only assume that you disliked your job. Tax accountant wouldn’t have been my first career choice either.”

“Bookkeeper,” he corrected. 

“Nuance,” the other replied. “And it’s not really the job that peaks my interest. I’m more curious about what this has to do with my brother, if we’re being quite frank. He doesn’t call me for favours very often. Or call me very often in general, truth be told, which leads me to believe there’s more than meets the eye.”

“Are you suggesting other motives then?’

“Depends. Are there other motives to suggest?”

Cas grimaced. Highly educated seemed a more apt description than the big-hearted dog lover depiction he’d first received. “Dean Winchester and I have a close relationship, yes. He came to my aid when I asked it of him.”

“I see.”

There was another brief pause, this time one that Sam honestly looked as if he were using to calculate in more factors unmentioned. His eyes locked in on what seemed like the band logo on Cas’ shirt, lips against the edge of the coffee cup as he took a small, measured sip. When he retracted, he spoke again. 

“A close enough relationship you’re willing to wear his clothes, then?”

Cas felt suddenly, intensely, angry. 

“I didn’t come here to be asked uncomfortable personal questions, Sam Winchester." The words were like a torrent, quick and harsh. "I came here for work, so if you’ll excuse my brashness, I find your curiosity upending and unreasonable.”

Sam looked honestly surprised by this, hands raised as if to show he didn’t wish to offend. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you or anything.”

Cas gave him a sour look, crossing his arms over his chest with a heavy thump. “It’s not of import whether or not your intentions were any less uncouth than they appeared. Might I suggest a more likely option of not bringing up personal relations between your relatives and your employees on the first day of knowing said employee? I would not assume you’re sleeping with any of my siblings, so I should suspect the same kind of blind eye-”

He was cut off in mid-sentence when Sam started to laugh. At first, it was just a quick smile that he looked as if he were trying to keep at bay, but then his hand came up, holding the expression physically, staunching out the first quirk spurts of what Cas knew to be chortling. 

“I didn’t say anything humorous, Sam Winchester.”

“Oh no, I get that,” the other responded between exasperated laughs. “I totally do, just, you’re way to cute, you know that?”

It was like a punch to the gut. Maybe because it took him by surprise, seeing as the other man had made no indication that he found Cas’ presence to be anything other than an oddity. More so, though, he felt the familiarity of the situation laid claim to something more intensifying than the simple jest of the comment. Dean had reacted in the very same way. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Sam said, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, letting out a few more deep chuckles that seemed to resonate off the living room walls. “Really, I’m honestly just surprised. I thought you were one of Dean’s attack strategies to pry back into my life again. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s used attractive strangers to do his dirty work.”

If Cas hadn’t been confused before, this one took the cake. “Pry into your life?”

Sam looked awfully embarrassed then, cheeks still warm from the bought of laughter, dropping his elevated foot back down so he could tap his fingers against his thighs. “Yeah, well, I guess you could say we haven’t exactly had a real close-knit relationship. Not for lack of trying, though it’s mostly on Dean’s part. You appeared to be the most, well, progressive method he’s attempted.”

“So you mean to say I’m a vessel to mend your broken relationship?” Cas asked, letting the newfound information sink in. It made a lot more sense than he was willing to admit. 

“Something like that,” he said, eyes dropping down again before raking up in that same way he had the day prior when he’d made note of the older man’s clothing choice, returning back to that calm, direct contact. There was a quick smirk pulling at his lips again. 

And there is was. The ache. How long had it been since he’d last had sex? Months, if he remembered correctly, which explained why he couldn’t stop aching with just the briefest measure of eye-contact. The quickest glimpse of returned interest. It made him feel jittery and out-of-self. 

“Well, it’s safe to say I have no intentions of being a volley between you two,” Cas said, breaking the sudden silence that appeared to come out of nowhere all at once. “Though the favour itself is still one I will be eternally grateful for. I hope this doesn’t displease you.”

“Not in the least.” Another smooth reply. Another amused, all-knowing look in his perked up lips. In the quirk of his left dimple.

Cas could feel his stomach knot up, this time with something akin to nerves. Yes, there were similarities between the two Winchester’s. The same interest, it seemed, though this Cas was not altogether certain on. Just, the charm of Dean was that he came across as the all-American, home grown, beer drinking, car door opening, southern boy. 

While Sam, well. Sam was in a class all his own.

The younger man went from off-handed and warm to predatory in seconds. This sort of click which was damn near visible when he moved from one self to the next. And maybe this is what Dean had implied back when he talked about moving to New York, and about leaving the younger Winchester behind. The inability to absorb which wrecked their relationship completely, or as much as had been told on the few brief times the subject had been breached. It was not something Cas had gained a full perspective on. 

Even still, the man across from him seemed quite at ease. Maybe it was more a case of miscommunication on Cas’ own part. After all, being told he was cute was a lot different than being told he was desirable, and though there was a certain amount of intensity in the younger man’s eyes after those words had been said, he couldn’t assume to understand what the intensity translated out to. Just that it was there, and it made him intimidating. 

As if sensing this, Sam finally spoke, pushing himself up slowly whilst letting out a slow groan. “Got to hate getting up after a good run. Best be getting to work now, don’t you agree?”

Cas had never been so happy to do just that. 

~~~

The rest of the morning and well into the afternoon had been spent in a bit of a circuit. First, the feeding, which was by far the easiest of the tasks at hand. He’d filled each bowl with the allocated amount of food directed by Sam, making sure the cages were swept out and the mats raked for dust and hair. Sam would take each dog out to pasture whilst he did this, making the job itself quite a bit easier. By the time Cas had reached the permanent residents, the hall itself seemed almost eerily quiet. 

When the task had finally been completed, he filled each water bowl with the inside tap before heading outside to find Sam who’d already managed to corral the dogs equally into the two separate empty lots according to size. He himself had been in the third slot with two dogs, one of which was unsurprisingly his Australian Shepherd, sitting at the edge of the field, watching with that same all-knowing eye. He was the only creature that turned to look at him when he came out, peering over only briefly before returning his attention back on his master. 

Sam, on the other hand, had been in full motion, keeping pace with the other dog in question who just so happened to be running the obstacle coarse. And perfectly, if he were being quite frank. The pointer was pristine in its movements, quick and agile as any Cas had ever chanced to watch on TV when nothing else was on. 

It had gone on for another four or five minutes, the dog coming back down a teeter-totter before stopping and sitting in a well-trained flourish. It was enough not to cheer for the sheer execution of such a feat. 

“Good job, Bailey,” Sam was saying, kneeling down so he could scratch the dogs head affectionately, and there was something endearing about his features then, warm and sincerely happy. His cheeks were red from exertion, but he petted the dog with enthusiasm even still. “That’s my girl.”

The dogs tongue was hanging out, lapping at air in a way that made her seem just about has happy as he was. 

Cas rested his arms against the gate, watching a little more closely, curious as ever to what had been laid before him. And he was certain it was for the best he said nothing simply for the fact that he saw a piece of Sam that he needed affirmation still existed. A real, genuine Sam. This was the thing he wondered if Dean had been waiting for all those years ago. 

The next step was brushing the dogs, two at a time and with Sam’s help. He found the task was only vigorous when he was equipped with a vigorous dog, which just so happened to be a good 90% of them. This, of course, wasn’t exactly made easy by the near consistent laughter coming from the younger man, who watched Cas struggle with almost too much amusement. Cas wasn’t the type to be easily embarrassed but his cheeks had reddened considerably throughout the process. 

They let the dogs out a second time, tossing Frisbees and ropes which some took off with though most returned, waiting for the next toss. This was probably the most enjoyable task in Cas’ eyes, watching the dogs run themselves silly, playing and bouncing about on the heels of their paws. They were all healthy, and happy. Cas could only assume this had been due to Sam’s attention to detail. 

By the time five o clock rolled around, Cas was exhausted. He’d fed the dogs twice, replaced the dog mats with fresh ones, collected abandoned toys from across the expanse of each slotted area, and when all these tasks had been done, had spent a good hour with Sam, learning how to train a part-timer to do basic tricks like sit and stay. A lesson that both the dog and Cas had learned quite a bit from, much to Sam’s relief. All in all, it had been a remarkably interesting first day, but for the morning’s little quarrel. 

Sam offered to drive him home yet again, which he agreed to for the mere fact he’d been on his feet for a better portion of the day. It’d been nice pulling himself up into the passenger seat of the younger Winchester’s truck. Warm, as he felt the accomplishment of a job well done making his body relax from the strain of first day impressions. He felt good enough to let his eyes slip just for a moment, and yet, before the truck had even passed the small bridge leading out into the dirt lane, he’d found himself quite soundly asleep. 

He woke to the gentle nudge of a large hand against his shoulder, and a thousand watt smile being what greeted him when he opened his eyes. 

“Morning, New York,” Sam said, and there was that amusement, but an honesty there that hadn’t really been before. If Cas hadn’t been half-asleep, he would have adverted his eyes for that mere fact. “Sleep well?”

He groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position, hand reaching up to rub at the predominant under circles that made him look so much older than he was. He let out another sigh, pushing the hair back off his forehead with a necessary brevity. “That doesn’t usually happen.”

“Running a kennel is no picnic, though I must admit you did pretty well for your first day,” Sam said, a kindness in his tone now. A sincerity that made his former self seem unreal. “Colour me impressed.”

“I wouldn’t say my contribution was overly impressive, but I thank you for the compliment nonetheless. It is much appreciated.”

Sam smiled then for a countless time, but with that same genuine mark of someone who was still capable of absorbing. Not the picture he’d gained from Dean. Not the cold exterior of someone who couldn’t find peace within themselves. Everything about Sam was turning his opinion completely topsy-turvy, and this was something he was certain he wasn’t prepared for. Because, if truth be told, he found it fascinating in ways he knew it shouldn’t have, and ached in ways he couldn’t ignore.

“I-uh, I should probably-.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, turning his eyes towards the windshield the back at him in the same, embarrassed, fleeting sort of way that Cas had felt then too. “Yeah, you should go, I guess. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

The older man slipped himself out of the front seat, dropping down onto the gravel of his own driveway, and it did feel like his then, even when he knew it belonged to someone else. For the first time in a long time, he felt at home. 

“Goodnight, Sam Winchester,” he said through the opened car window. 

The younger man let his expression lighten, eyes crinkling in a way that showed just a small portion of his age, but a bit of his heart too, which was something that couldn’t be avoided. “Goodnight, New York.” 

Yes, things weren’t going to be easy from this point forward, of which Cas was absolutely positive.


	3. More than a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Sam have a little debacle with some dog washing and Cas meets Amelia for the very first time.

Chapter 3: More Than a Memory 

_“So, you mean to tell me if we cut the restoration budget, quit providing discounted services to long-term customers, and upsell extensive repairs during basic oil changes, we’ll meet what we spend?” Dean asked, elbows on the desk, one hand holding the sheet of paper they’d been going over for the past two hours, which was something the older man had found relatively surprising. It was a long enough duration that Dean had stripped off his leather jacket, acquiescing to a cup of coffee after the fourth time having been offered it. And Cas, well, he had to cancel one of his meetings already, just about bordering into his Elderly couple from New Jersey._

_The younger man’s free hand was propping his head up, brows furrowed in that same, exhausting concentration. It was enough to make Cas pick up the phone the second time that night, calling down for Anna to cancel on the old folks in the same brisk manner. When he pressed the receiver back down on its classic rotary dial, he spoke. “Not just that, Dean Winchester. You’ll turn a profit, which is sorely necessary if you’re looking to dig Singer Automotive from the pits of bankruptcy.”_

_“Bobby’s not gonna like this.”_

_“Far better losing his pride than his business,” he replied curtly._

_Castiel rested the tops of his hands against the edge of the desk, cutting eye-contact when these words had been said. For some reason, he felt a certain amount of regret when he disappointed Dean. Maybe because of how young the other man really was, and so chalk full of self-doubt. It was obvious from the moment he talked about the state of finances with the limited extent of what he was made aware of from his sparse discussions with Robert Singer._

_But Dean was a fighter, which was something Cas couldn’t help but be drawn to in ways he didn’t get to feel drawn in by before. He’d seen sad, and desperate, but not with this kind of drive. Not this much deliberation. No, Dean wasn’t pulling at the older man’s sleeves helplessly, begging for more than he could handle._

_“I’ll find a way to make him understand,” the younger man said, dropping his hand down where it could pull at the other edge of the paper, eyes scanning along the words as if committing them to memory for the sheer importance of the document. “Bobby’s a big ol’ sap, but he’s not an idiot. I’m sure he’ll come around.”_

_“And if he doesn’t?”_

_“He will. Trust me.”_

_Cas shrugged, leaning back in his chair then. He didn’t really know how the proximity had changed as drastically as it had, what with his having found his stomach also resting against the desk’s edge, leaning over enough that the conversation felt personal. Dean had done the same with those elbows against mahogany, catching brief stretches of eye-contact in a lazy, calm drift. It was a daze, those two hours. A hazy mess._

_“Would you like to go for drinks after this?” Cas asked, which slipped from his mouth before he had the chance to regret it. The words lingered in air, coiled up the fog of whatever it was that seemed to ebb its way in, and flow its way out just as quickly. Being with the younger man was like breathing. “Maybe some food? I know a place in Queen’s that make great burgers, if you’re interested.”_

_Dean paused, leaning back in the same way the older man had, letting his hands drop against the glossy wood. He paused, as if the information was something that needed to be computed. Registered and filed away for future analysis. After the moment passed, he spoke._

_“Hell yeah, I could go for some drinks right about now.” That smile made the ebb thick, nearly opaque. The flow was like being sucked completely dry. “I don’t suppose you’d think they’d have any pie?”_

\--

Cas decided it would be best not to show up early for work anymore. 

After a night of haphazard cleaning – which he’d slunk about in a tired, listless gait – and a full nights rest of heavy, dreamless sleep, Castiel found himself faced with the ever growing fascination he was having with the way Sam’s ass looked in a pair of loose sweats. Not that, of course, he’d let himself chance to look more than once or twice since he’d arrived that Friday morning, hoping to keep his interest at bay. Just, if he were being honest, and he were being quite honest with himself as of late, it was a _very_ big distraction. 

Things only seemed to get worse when the young Winchester came down those stairs in a pair of ripped Levi’s, tight against his athletic legs and tapered along his thin waist. When he reached up to grab the spare set of shed keys off the top of the bookshelf, his plaid shirt rode up revealing just a sliver of bronzed skin and, god forbid, a hint of dusty brown hair, untrimmed in a way that was not something Cas had wanted to let himself take note on. 

No, things were definitely not okay. 

And yet Sam had visibly softened. When he asked the older man to start up the riding mower, he’d patted him on the shoulder with a big, kind smile and eyes crinkling up in a friendly manner. After Cas had finished mowing each section of grass, he’d received a consolatory hair ruffle, the other seeming to dance about him as if the older man was incapable of movement. And that was something he was starting to feel a certain amount of concern towards, because for some strange reason, it may have been true. 

“I’m heading into Mobile tomorrow,” Sam was saying as they each systematically filled up buckets full of soapy water, preparing for an all out war of dog-washing proportions. This, of course, Cas hadn’t known. “Need to pick up more dog food and there’s a few errands I got to run. I know its your day off and all, but do you wanna come?”

Castiel eyed him with a certain air of suspicion, watching as the younger man filled up a red plastic bucket with a mixture of some pink canine shampoo and cool water from the inner tap. The muscles of his forearms visibly strained under skin as he balanced the container on his bent knee, wiry and perfect as they were, and yet Sam seemed not to notice this at all, apparently not strained enough that it deserved his full concentration. “I need groceries.”

“And clothes,” the young Winchester noted, reaching out one of his hands to pull at the frayed hem of the older man’s off-white t-shirt. For all he knew, it may once have been as crisp and clean as fine linen before time had corroded it down to a brownish-greyish ivory tone. In any case, it was certainly not the most concerning piece of information before him. “You seemed more comfortable in the monkey suit.”

This, as much as he hated to admit, was far too accurate. 

“I have not had occasion to wear casual clothing in quite some time, Sam Winchester,” Castiel said, deliberate. Controlled. “All of this is very much, well, new to me.”

"And you never used to wear casual clothing when you weren't working?"

It didn't seem of any real import at the time." 

Sam, whose attention had returned towards the tap some point in time during this statement, had smiled, letting out that huff of air from his lips in the same almost disbelieving amusement. He looked back up, shaking his head mildly. “I can kinda get why Dean likes you so much. You really are something else.”

Cas could only turn his eyes away at this, biting at the inside of his cheek just a little too sharply. 

Washing the dogs had turned into a bit more of a mess than even Sam had presumed, what with Cas still learning how to be around the dogs. How to hold them right, or lift their paws in ways that wouldn’t stretch their legs out in the wrong direction. And Sam, who’d seemed a whole different person only yesterday, patiently waited on Cas, beckoning him through the easiest methods and the small tricks to soothe the vamped anxiety of all parties. It helped, till those long pianist fingers tried to press against his own in an attempt at leading him towards what the younger man had been willing with his voice. 

The sudden touch had been enough to warrant a quick, sporadic hand jerk, which in turn uprooted Castiel’s generally cemented balance. He fell back from the crouch he’d managed up until that point, onto his butt, foot catching on the rim of the bucket which, in turn, flung in the opposite direction. It was enough to scare off the dog, spilling water all over the kennel floor (which fortunately had a drain for this very reason) and, to Cas’ greater horror, Sam himself. The water had splattered all the way up the younger man’s jeans, successfully catching him in a stunned silence. 

“Oh!” he said, trying to push himself up then, feeling those strange waves of embarrassment again in ways he’d never felt before. Shame, maybe, because he certainly felt like an idiot then. “I’ll clean this mess up, and just, wow. I cannot apologize enough. Sam, please don’t let this reflect poorly on my performance-.”

The sponge hit his chest with a deafening splat, cold enough that it felt as if it took the air out of his very lungs. He could feel the apology freeze up in his throat at the feel of water soaking through the fabric of his t-shirt, eyes wide in confusion. 

“Oops,” Sam responded, covering his mouth when the smile started to pull at the corners of his lips again in that stiflingly honest way, feigning ignorance. 

In a matter of seconds, the accident turned into an all out brawl. Cas tossed his balled up rag at Sam’s head in annoyance, which the young Winchester retaliated by grabbing hold of one of the fresh buckets and dumping it on top of the older man’s head. This earned a quick shake off as he got up on his feet, looking for ammo. Riot, who’d been sitting not to far away, decided it would be better to head himself towards the front office, trotting away from the ensued mess. In minutes, both were soaked, Sam laughing so loudly his cheeks were red from his breathlessness, and Cas smiling wider than he ever remembered smiling before. And yeah, he was cold, probably for the first time since he’d exited the air-conditioned cab, but there was something good natured about it. Something homely that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Just that he couldn’t stop smiling. It made his cheeks ache with the strained expression. 

“Well that was a waste of shampoo,” Sam said, pushing his long damp tresses back, his free hand rested on his hip as if to keep him from toppling over. “Looks like I’m adding another errand to the list, huh?.”

He stooped low then, collecting up the empty buckets with the long stretch of his arms, still riled up with exertion and letting out those same puffs of laughter every time he looked up at the older man. He’d shake his head as if he still couldn’t believe what’d just occurred. How childish. They were both grown men. 

“What time do you want to go to Mobile tomorrow?” Cas asked. 

“Seven-thirty,” the other replied, brow perked. “So I’m guessing that’s a yes, then?”

“I never said no, Sam Winchester.”

\--

“You’re more Dean’s size than mine,” Sam said, hands to the older man’s shoulder’s as he looked him over, this time without any implication of amusement. Just full concentration. “I don’t know if I’ve got anything that’s gonna fit.”

“I’ll manage anything that isn’t wet,” Cas replied curtly, crossing his arms over his chest. He was cold still from the damp, shuffling from foot to foot as he watched the young Winchester turn back towards the closet, ruffling through the sparse rows of fabric, all worn and well-loved. Sam never seemed to live outside of his means. “I just appreciate the sentiment. It was kind of you to offer.”

And it truly was. After their little spat in the kennel, and a quick moping up of the water that hadn’t drained on its own, Cas had found himself unable to shake the cold, drenched all the way through the sparse few layers. And Sam, who seemed to notice everything even without Cas really wanting him too, noticed this with an acuteness that screamed worry. In minutes, he’d dragged the older man up the staircase and into his loft in search of warmer, drier clothing. 

“I’m not gonna let freeze,” he said, shaking his head like this were the most ridiculous assumption. He handed Cas a red and white plaid button-down still on it’s hanger before delving into the big oak drawers where the older man assumed the rest of his clothing lay dormant. “Just give me a sec.”

At this point, Castiel let himself take in the sight of the younger man’s bedroom, feeling suddenly and distinctly out of place among the chipping book shelves sparsely decorated, and the low double bed he was sure Sam’s legs would dangle off the end of when he slept. It was unmade, sheets crumpled and thick, scratchy blanket tossed on the floor in a big pile. 

There was a small bedside table with an old antique lamp, and a picture of a Sam with a curly haired girl. 

He gravitated towards it then, somehow more curious than he knew he should have been, fingers pressing against the metal frame with a certain delicacy. She was young in the photo, no more than twenty, with a genuine smile seeming to light up her delicate features. The smooth brocade of her pale, peachy skin and the delicate curve of her brow seemed muted next to the warm crinkles in her happy eyes. Sam had also looked beyond happy, and naïve, hair still dangling in his eyes like a teenager, holding on to her like if he’d let go, she’d disappear. 

“These you should be able to tie up if you’re worried about them falling down-.”

Sam, who’d turned back with an armful of grey and white fabric, paused in mid-sentence, brows furrowed and lips a taut line across his strong jaw. His shoulders slumped a notch. His eyes were unimaginably sad. 

The older man let his hands fall away from the frame, taking a step back as if to show his intentions were not to offend. He pivoted to face, head cocked to the side. 

“Sam Winchester,” Castiel said in that slow, controlled manner. “She is beautiful.”

It was like watching a clock stop. For a moment, the face before him showed recognition, a slowing of the hands as each ticked along his features, his eyes that seemed so full that they couldn’t possibly hold it all in. It slowed, a listless click and clack as if time itself had forgotten how to breathe. Maybe it had, which was why silence crept it’s way in through the cracks in the hardwood floor and up along the expanse of Sam’s stiff, frozen body. Quiet seemed to turn him to stone. 

And then, as if all at once, the world resumed. 

“Yeah, she really was,” Sam said, dropping the pile of clothing on the bed. In mere seconds he’d reverted back into a calm melancholy, blocked enough that it couldn’t be read in his eyes any further. Just a slump in his shoulders that hadn’t be there before. “I’m gonna go make some food. Just leave your wet clothes in the basket and I’ll dry ‘em up for you.”

With that he walked out the door, strides long and smooth and showing nothing. 

Castiel let his fingers touch the metal frame once more, knowing full well what it all meant, and wishing he’d said nothing. Dean had explained it once before, what seemed like months ago when he’d admitted his folly. Admitted his want to right things but never really having the chance to do so. Cas had only heard few stories of Sam, but Jess was one he wasn’t likely to forget. 

“I’m sorry,” he said to the picture frame. 

After dressing in the lighter pair of sweatpants which were, undoubtedly, massive, Cas slipped on the too-large white v-neck shirt and the plaid button down he had to roll at the sleeves for the mere fact his hands seemed swamped in fabric. In retrospect, and as much as Sam had seemed large to begin with, he never expected to feel this small when compared to the width of the other man. 

But here he was, drowning in clothing that smelt like Sam, and it was enough to make the whole thing very unnerving. 

In any case, he wasn’t about to let himself get distracted by the upturned collar that his nose found a way of gravitating towards. It was a distinctive scent that seemed familiar and yet not at all. Not the metallic clang of melding and oil and grease, but of rain and wood and Irish Spring soap. Even still, under it all, there was still that direct resemblance to the older Winchester. Something he could only assume was a trait they shared just like the sparse few others. And maybe that’s why he found himself unable to ignore the little things. 

He dropped the pile of wet clothes in the wicker basket by the door, then carted it out with him into the hallway. 

That was, at least, until he heard voices. 

“The least you could do was try and return my texts,” said a very distinctly feminine voice. And there was a tone, playful yet still stern as if suggesting a certain amount of familiarity. Someone Sam must have known, if not well. He trained in on it, learning the sound as best he could. “Sometimes I think you worry me on purpose.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing on my to-do list.” That was distinctly Sam, direct and to the point but his deep husk all the same. Not so friendly, nor assuming. It sounded like the Sam who’d hired him. 

“So what have you been up to, then? Not that I should really care, seeing as you haven’t exactly been prudent on returning my calls.”

“Busy. You know how it goes.”

The familiar sound of the coffee maker clicked off. Cas could hear the mugs being pulled out of the cupboard, one by one.

“You should really hire some full-time help.”

Castiel placed the wicker basket down then, deciding if he were going to make his presence known, it would be better to do so freehanded. He slipped his bare feet along the hardwood floor, silent as the grave as was his general style. He hated to make a grand entrance. 

And yet, when he turned the corner into the living room, both pairs of eyes seemed to flutter in his direction as if on queue. 

The woman, of whom Cas found mildly attractive in her own, comely manner, seemed to be in mid-sentence when she first made eye-contact with the stranger across the room. Her mouth had slackened considerably during this process, brows raised in shock which made it quite clear Cas’ presence had been unknown up until then, in mentioning or not. 

She had dark hair, all messy curls. It reminded him of the girl in the photo. 

Sam, on the other hand, looked as if he had half-hoped the confrontation wouldn’t have gone down. 

“Hello,” Cas said, shuffling from foot too foot. 

The woman turned her eyes towards Sam, hands raised up in mute horror, or maybe mere confusion, which made Cas suddenly very aware that maybe Sam hadn’t exactly made it known he’d hired on that ‘extra help’. When she turned her eyes back towards Cas, she looked as if she’d swallowed a canary whole. “So _this_ is why you’ve been so busy lately?”

“If we’re being honest, yes,” Sam said, shrugging his shoulders. He turned back towards the coffee machine, pouring three mugs of that thick, ashy brew. Cas could already feel himself physically revolting against the smell. 

“And you are?” she asked, gesturing towards Cas, not with any real force or anger, but shock. 

“Castiel Novak,” he replied stoically. “If it pleases you.”

“Holy hell.” She shook her head again, pressing her fingers against her forehead. “Holy hell, Sam.”

“It’s really not that big of deal, Amelia.” the young Winchester responded. He was holding out a mug of coffee, cool as a cucumber, with an ease that made the woman’s reaction almost unnecessarily over-the-top. She, of course, looked at the cup as if the mere presence of it was offensive. 

“Not that big of deal? _Not that big of deal_?” she gestured towards Cas almost madly, exasperated. “I just found out my recent ex has been sleeping with men and suddenly I’m overreacting? Oh my God, Sam-.”

Cas could feel the heat stir full force behind his cheeks, eyes wide in surprise and confusion. Sam, who’d been docile up until that point, raised his hands up, looking to show that first real visible panic. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there. No, I’m not sleeping with Cas. He’s the new trainer I hired on at your suggestion.”

“Trainer?” she asked, confused. When her eyes came back towards Cas with that same, quizzical look, she didn’t seem convinced. “Is that the excuse I’m gonna get? Cause it’s not very good, if you ask me.”

“Amelia, I’m being one hundred percent honest with you right now.”

Cas, who’d remained mostly quiet up until this point, decided to interject in a way he assumed would be that same calm, composed self. He wasn’t used to accusations, but he wasn’t about to roll over and wait till Sam dug them out of this one either. “If you don’t mind my intrusion, I believe you have me labeled out all wrong, miss. I really am just hired help.”

“Dean called in a favour,” Sam added. “He’s fresh off the train. Never worked a laborious day in his life, mind you, and is a little too green in the gills for my tastes, but he’s a pretty handy guy to have around. I swear on it.”

“Seriously?” the mistrust seemed to dissipate, her features expressing something pretty close to relief. Or maybe shame, because she looked mighty embarrassed then. “I just assumed cause he was coming out of your bedroom in your sweats and just- wait, why is he in your sweats?”

Sam laughed at this, attempting to hand her the mug for a second time, which she’d taken without complaint. “Mishap washing the dogs. I wasn’t putting it mildly when I said he was green around the gills.”

It was Cas’ turn to feel embarrassed, shuffling once again in that awkward manner. 

“Well now I feel like an idiot,” she said, laughing awkwardly, hand reaching up to scuff at the back of her hair. “Er, well, hey then. I’m Amelia Richardson, co-owner of Winchester Kennel. I run the little veterinarian clinic in town full-time though so all the work is really up to this guy here.”

She held out her free hand which Cas had to clear a few strides to take, not quite comfortable with the idea thanks to his sweaty palms. Fortunately for him, hers were equally so. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Richardson.”

“Please, call me Amelia.”

Sam handed Cas a mug as well, filled with that thick Louisiana brew. Before he could attempt to decline the beverage though, the younger man was already pouring a significant amount of cream in his cup, cracking an amused smile as he did so. 

“You’ll like it better this way,” he said. Cas was all but ready to simply turn himself back towards the hallway again. 

Each party took a seat in the living room, Sam and Amelia on the large leather sofa whilst Cas took his own spot across from them in the accent armchair. It was a strange feeling, being the one in the large green wingback, watching the two discuss finances which he didn’t bother trying to correct. After all he wasn’t hired to be a bookkeeper for Winchester Kennel. He was hired to shovel shit. 

Just that, as he sat, sipping at the coffee that was just about bearable, letting the scent of Sam fill his nostrils in that all too distracting manner, he had the sense of not belonging making it hard to concentrate on anything other than it. He wasn’t made for this place. He wasn’t made for anything but desk jockeying in a neat, executive position as a high-end accountant. That was his lot in life, and the sooner he realized this, the better off he was sure to be. 

And yet, as he sat there, drinking small sips and listening to the seasonal declines in kennel usages, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was what everyone felt when they were willing to choose the path less trodden.

“I know it seems a little bleak, but you said it yourself,” Sam was stating, seemingly quite passionate over the subject he was discussing. “The kennel has never been better. Finances are a little bleak, yes, but we’re in business and we’re not scheduled to slow any time soon. So unless another hurricane comes in and sweeps us out, we’ll make it to the end of this quarter without counting any losses.”

“Sam Winchester, do you charge for your training services additional to the boarding costs?”

Both Sam and Amelia turned their eyes towards Cas then, Sam’s brows furrowed while Amelia’s were raised, both equally surprised by the older man’s interjection. The young Winchester responded without urgency. “No. No, it’s not like I’m really doing anyone any favours by training their dogs. That’s just a quirk of mine.”

“But you are good at training,” Castiel stated plainly. “Objectively, an owner who drops their dog off at a kennel assumes to have the dog returned in the same state of being, whether that be well behaved or the complete opposite. Your efforts are valiant but unnecessary.”

“So you’re stating I should use my efforts elsewhere?” He looked flabbergasted by this option, seeming quite at a loss for words. 

“No,” Castiel replied, crossing his legs and perching his hands in that way that had looked so intimidating in a suit and jacket. He could only assume he looked quite silly doing so in sweats. “No, not at all. I’m suggesting you offer it as a supplementary service.”

Amelia nearly jumped out of her seat at the suggestion, quite on board with the subject matter, so it seemed, hands up as if to gesture he great enthusiasm towards the suggestion made. Sam, on the other hand, looked damn near offended. 

“It doesn’t have to be a significant increase,” she was saying, not really seeming to pay close mind to the expression Sam was affronting. “And you’ve always said you wanted more opportunity to work with both the dog and the owner together. We could run hour classes on Thursday nights, or obstacle training. Really open up the place to more possibilities. Sam, you can’t honestly think this is a bad idea.”

“It’s not,” he responded. “Really, it’s a great idea. It’s just not what this place is about.”

This left Amelia near raging. 

“Not what this place is about?” she shook her head, exasperated. “You do realize how much this kennel would benefit from a training session once a week? I don’t see how this could be against any standards you’ve set other than expanding upon what people already know you’re capable of doing. Train dogs, Sam. You’re good at training dogs.”

“And what about Periwinkle, then?” he asked, calm and cool but still filled with conviction. “Or Mr. Rogers, or Bailey even? Am I supposed to punish them by quitting on their lessons just because their owners couldn’t give a rat’s ass about their dogs? I couldn’t possibly ask people to pay for these services because they won’t, and if they do, it won’t be the dogs that severely need it.”

This seemed to staunch any momentum that may have been created in the suggestion, Amelia turning her eyes away. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that to those dogs, and I won’t ask anyone to pay for something that I’m giving away freely,” he said, standing then. “It’s just not what this place stands for. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got dog bowls to fill.”

“Sam.”

“It’s quite alright, Amelia,” he said, pressing his hand against her shoulder then as if to show it didn’t bother him. That he was okay with what had been said. After he’d removed it, he gestured towards Cas to follow. “New York, we’ve got work to do.”

Castiel merely nodded, unfolding himself from the green chair as he watched the older man exit the loft. He regretted his intrusion the moment Sam’s brows had furrowed, knowing full well no matter what he offered, or suggested, it wasn’t likely he would get a rise out of Sam Winchester. And, as much as he should have liked to see himself being of use in a way that wasn’t simply mowing lawns and filling water dishes, he knew there was nothing his expertise would prove other than a useless attribute. Sam was too smart for that, and his corners had been extremely well-rounded. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Amelia,” Cas said, reaching his hand out across the coffee table for hers once more, stoic and polite. “Your enthusiasm is inspiring.”

She smiled at this comment, waking from the crestfallen state she’d inevitably slipped into after Sam had slammed the door shut on any growth in business. She stood, taking his hand in her own her deft one. A surgeons hands, though the lives she saved were not of the human kind. And maybe that was why he felt a certain amount of respect for her, with her dark curls and her small chin. Her panelled cheeks and her quick, fascinating eyes. 

Yes, there was a certain amount of respect there, garnered but still quite potent. 

When Cas had joined Sam in the downstairs office, the young Winchester had been sitting, typing something into the old PC at a rapid pace. The kind that made it even more obvious that Sam wasn’t unaccustomed to desk work himself. When he looked up, his stern expression softened somewhat, lips pulling up ever so slightly at the corners. It made the hard lump in Cas’ stomach dissipate immensely. 

“Sorry about that,” Sam said, hands slipping away from the keyboard then so he could face his entire self in the older man’s direction. “Amelia means well, honestly. She’s just-.”

“Passionate,” Cas said. “No need to explain to me, Sam Winchester. I find Amelia to be a kind and understanding sort of person.”

This made Sam smile. “I’m glad you think so. Now let’s try and get some work done, okay?”

Cas could only shrug at this, exhausted but willing. He was starting to think there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Sam Winchester if he asked of it. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. 

Then again, things had a way of never really being what they seemed.


	4. Storm Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Sam go into town, shopping gets done, food gets eaten, and Jo and Ellen make their first appearances. A few little bits of character development as well as getting a glimpse into what Cas is feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter miss Tsundwarf beta'd for me, so if you're seeing a significant decrease in grammatical errors, you have her to thank. she put up with me through phenomena so i personally think she deserves a round of applause. 
> 
> Anywho, here's your chapter, lovely folk, and sorry for the intense wait!

Chapter 4: Storm Warning

_He had fistfuls of leather clenched between his fingers, and it was terrifyingly invigorating._

_“Cas, buddy, slow your row, alright?” he was greeted with a raspy voice coming from that raspy throat his lips had currently found themselves locked on, groaning against the stubble. He let out a soft almost growl in response as drawn out and pulled thin as he felt in that moment, nails most likely damaging the material of the younger man’s jacket now that he was pinning him tightly against the hallway door. “I mean, hell just keep, okay just keep doing what you’re doing. God damn.”_

_He could only smile at this, taking his time as he dropped his shoulders, moving his head from one side to the next so his lips could press against that pulse point in just such a way it drew out a quick intake of air from the younger man. A brutal, but honest, measure of breath that spoke symphonies when his words were guarded. Dean hadn’t said even a sentence on how he felt or why he reciprocated since Cas had kissed him for the first time. Just that he was there, and he wasn’t fighting it._

_On the contrary, he responded damn near too favourably._

_“We don’t have to, uh, do this in the hallway,” he was saying as Cas crowded him back further into the expanse of oak, his own fingernails drawing along the wooden surface in a way that seemed uncontrolled and with a great amount of purpose. More damage, which was something the older man found exciting. “I could definitely settle with the hallway, though, if you-uh, if you want.”_

_“Be quiet, Dean,” Cas chastised, moving his way down towards the bared collarbone. This drew a quick shudder. A gulp as the bob of an Adam’s apple confirmed his actions were pleasing. The skin was salty under his tongue, and rough in all the right ways. Dean smelt like fuel and grease even under the fabric as if embedded in his very core._

_Cas still wasn’t quite sure how it happened that he ended up in that hallway._

_It started with a story, of that he knew well enough. Heading into that bar that Dean seemed to appreciate more than he’d assumed the younger man would, Cas found himself immersed in the personality and the ideology that was Dean Winchester. A quick question here that lead into a little back story there, and before their burgers showed up Cas was enthralled with the tales of how Dean came to find work in New York. Of how he grew up southern and still had that southern appreciation for good cooking, good family, and good ol’ Sunday night football._

_It was the flicker that kept him almost unblinkingly aware of that hole in the nape of the younger man’s green Henley. The quirk in his left brow that perked up ever so slightly when he expected a response. Even the flecks of muted copper in those hazy green irises that kept still and confident and without mercy. Dean was a force to be reckoned with._

_But after the third of fourth beer – which Cas hadn’t been keeping track of in his devotion to each word those lips eluded upon – Dean’s mood dampened considerably. He spoke of his drunk dad like the very thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth, and his mum who he could recall with frightening clarity for one who’d lost someone so young. His temperance was in the way he seemed to bear his loss like a necessary burden, acute as it was but deep and cutting as it could be. He told Cas his story because Cas listened without complaint. He made his life known because Cas had proven himself capable of picking up the pieces in the most strategically planned and organized manner possible. An attention to detail that made him want to bear his soul, even if he knew he shouldn’t, to a beautiful, blue-eyed stranger._

_He talked about Sam for awhile. Not much, though when he dwelled upon the name for too long his voice would crack and come apart. Which was when Cas had kissed him, that name still soft on the edge of his lips. Still clinging to the dew of his smooth skin and sweet, gentle tongue._

_They’d left the bar that night leaving half-eaten food and half-drank beers, followed out by cat-calls and jests that left them both reeling._

_It seemed only natural that they ended up here, though he couldn’t suppose he knew why or how. Dean was beautiful in the way disasters always were, sweeping in heavy, and responding without remorse. He was a hurricane that Cas could only assume would interchange and slip away just as quickly as he came in. And that was okay, in a way. It was how all his relationships had worked, if he chanced to call any of them relationships. Cas didn’t want permanence._

_His just wanted this moment, as thick and real as he could get it, and with Dean pressed up against that door, surmising to his actions and responding in kind._

_Yeah, maybe the bedroom wasn’t such a bad idea. That way, he’d feel the aftereffects in his sheets, where Dean’s smell would cling. And as he slid his tie off in one quick, fluent motion, he realized that maybe he wanted that more than he wanted sex.  
_

\--

“You coming, New York?”

It couldn’t have been seven-thirty. At least, Cas was almost positive it couldn’t have been any later than six. He scratched his eyes, cellphone pressed between his ear and the pillow as he laid there, staring at moth-holed curtains. The sound of Sam’s voice was an odd accompaniment to his morning routine that usually consisted of watching the light push through the shutters and up along the ceiling slowly, inching its way towards his bed in the its lazy drawl. He liked watching the dust particles dance about. Liked to wonder how much of it he were breathing in. 

“I thought you said seven-thirty,” Cas grumbled, voice raspy and thick with sleep. As prompt as he was, Cas liked his sleep, maybe more than he was willing to allow. “I’m not up yet.”

“Well, I lied,” Sam responded, sounding impatient. “Hurry up, alright? I made sandwiches.”

For breakfast. This didn’t surprise him whatsoever. 

“You owe me, Winchester. I’ll be down in five.”

Five turned out to be fifteen, which the older man wasn’t even somewhat apologetic for, taking a quick but necessary shower before dressing in one of the only solid blue t-shirts still wearable. That was except for the small grease stain at the neck-line and a few small splatters of white paint under the armpit. When he slipped on the acid-washed levis he’d already worn once and the one pair of running shoes that were starting to show the wear and tear of use, he could feel his lips purse. No, Castiel certainly wasn’t comfortable wearing clothing that hadn’t been cleanly pressed and starched. 

After a few more seconds of deliberation, he ran his fingers through his messy, starting to get a bit too long, hair before slipping on Sam’s button down. It looked good in ways it shouldn’t have. 

Afterwards he brushed his teeth, slipped his black leather wallet in his pocket, then headed out, feeling exasperated. 

“Jeez, New York,” Sam said, opening the passenger seat door from the inside with his ever-stretching arms as soon as the older man was in sight. “Thought you might have fallen down a sink hole or somethin'. What took you so long?”

Cas ignored him, sliding up onto the plush seating, slamming the door behind him with a pleasant creak of the hinges. It was a beast of a vehicle, appearing to have received a lot of wear and tear and not enough TLC. But that was the charm of it, listening to the engine hum probably louder than it should, or the groaning of the suspension as the younger man switched gears. It couldn’t be explained, the way the air caught between his fingers as the truck began to move, or how it felt as it rushed past him through that open window, country music blaring him back to his senses. And he wondered if maybe this was what it was like on the opposite side of the spectrum. He liked the dangerous feel of being in that Impala, listening to Bob Dylan, making out in the backseat like teenagers. 

But he liked this, somehow, more. 

“I made ham ‘n cheese and peanut butter,” Sam was stating, eyes flicking from the dirt lane towards Cas then back a few times. “Didn’t really know what you ate so I brought both just in case.”

“Either is fine. I am not overly fastidious, Sam Winchester.”

“I gathered as much.” There was that smirk again, unabashed as ever. “But hey, better safe than sorry.”

Cas liked that he hadn’t had to explain his word choices to Sam. 

“So how long till we get to Mobile?” Cas asked, resting his arm against the open window, letting his fingers splay just a little further as the air hurried past. And it was nice when they were out of the woods, better when they’d turned up and onto paved streets. 

“Forty minutes, give or take,” Sam replied. His hair was up again, tied at the nap of his neck. It was awfully distracting if the older man were being quite honest. Cas eyed the other man’s sharp jawline. The smooth expanse of his thick neck. “Didn’t you fly into Mobile?”

“I took a train,” he said, clearing the rasp from his throat. “It was all a bit of a blur.”

He turned his eyes away, back towards some of the small flecks and cracks in the windshield, trying to think of things he needed, supplies and groceries and clothes. A truck, if he could find a good used dealership. Anything, really, that he could get his hands on just as long as he wasn’t thinking about the fact that he could smell Sam Winchester on the nape of his collar. He was starting to regret his decisions a lot more frequently. 

“Well, Mobile’s no Manhattan but if you’re a city dweller, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it.”

Sure enough, Sam hadn’t missed a beat on that subject. 

They’d made it in record timing, thanks to lighter traffic and the rather fast driving ways of the young Winchester beside him. He was quite sure the truck probably shouldn’t have been going half as fast as it was, though it seemed no concern to Sam. He looked at peace in the drivers seat, leaning on that windowsill with such charm. 

There was no mistaking Mobile for anything other than a city, what with the tall buildings and skyscrapers cutting the horizon while they drove. And Cas, who’d found the sight almost heartwarmingly familiar, couldn’t help but edge his eyes between it and the man beside him, who hadn’t seemed to quit that same, all-knowing smile. It was an amusement Cas couldn’t help but feel himself somewhat bewildered by. 

Downtown Mobile had a certain feel that could only be described in the way everything seemed to be depicted by in Alabama. Southern, with a nice dollop of country-fried everything. The shops were connected, some looking like small little Louisiana spots what with the breaking plaster and the black-painted metal balconies. Others were more modern, with red brick and blinking signs in the windows. Down alleys you could see rusted fire escapes and clotheslines pulled taut between each building covered in a whole assortment of material. 

It was busy, and booming, and full of life in ways that Queens had been busy and full of life. Just different in the aesthetic. Different in the tone and texture. 

Cas couldn’t help but love it. 

“I’ve gotta stop off at Chuck’s for a quick sec, then I’m all yours,” Sam said, parallel parking his massive truck into a spot Cas almost didn’t believe it’d fit into. “So make your list now, if you’re gonna.”

The older man could only smile at this, knowing full well there was a detailed, alphabetically organized, shopping list in his back pocket with projected expenses and numbered by severity. He’d spent a good hour pouring over every detail as it wouldn’t be an everyday occurrence he could run into town especially if he didn’t get that truck today. 

He was not afraid of his figures, though. If there was anything Castiel had done well, it was save his money frugally and damn near obsessively. 

The storefront they’d parked next to had the feel of a pet store that would have boarded up windows in New York, too locally owned to seem as if it would stand it’s own in an economic decline. He could only assume the store itself ran off of patronage and loyalty alone, which didn’t surprise him much what with how everything seemed up until that point. Just, too see the shop owner coming out to greet Sam at the door, smiling widely and touching palms with the much taller man, he couldn’t help but feel a small amount of pride towards his current choice of residence. As progressive as New York was, it didn’t come close to the honest hospitality of Alabama. 

Sam had walked inside the building only to return moments later with a large orange metal cart that he pushed through the storefront doors, covered in what appeared to be a good dozen bags of dog food. The shorter man followed after, discussing something Cas couldn’t hear but for the muffled muttering from the distance it’d been said. Even still, it seemed uninteresting. Sam tossed the bags, two by two, up onto the tall heights of his shoulders before dumping them into the bed of the trucks backend, sending a shrill creak from the suspension. The tires took on most of the impact in a way that would wear them out much faster than they were worth. 

Afterwards, Sam touched his palm against the other man’s shoulder, gave him that natural smile and quick salutation before joining Cas in the front seat once more. And there was a warmth in his cheeks, ruddy and dark as it was, but still something unimaginably attractive. It left Cas feeling oddly out of breath. 

“Now I’m yours,” Sam Winchester said, eyes playful. “What would you most like to do?”

You, his subconscious nagged in that most nonsensical way. “Find a department store, preferably. Clothing seems the most necessary item on my list.”

“I can see that.” Sam pulled at the collar of the button down between forefinger and thumb, glancing just long enough for the motion to be uncomfortable. “I don’t remember saying you could keep my clothes.”

“I borrowed it.”

“You did, did you?”

Cas kept his eyes straight ahead, peering at the back of the black Goldwing parked just in front of them. It was difficult handling the stranger Sam, all-knowing as he had a tendency of being, but dealing with this carefree, playful, forgiving Sam was far more a challenge. Because it worked far better, and cut much deeper. He had to concentrate solely on the small license plate, or the leather seat of the bike ahead of him. Even the smooth paint job that seemed almost flawless in the morning sunshine, making him all too aware of the fact that he liked the way it looked, maybe more so than a rusty old truck of his own. 

“I want a motorcycle,” he said, unflinching. When he turned back towards Sam, the expression he was greeted with was one of surprise, but also a certain amount of awe. “Something fast. Are there any used dealerships in the area?”

Sam, who seemed near staggered by the information given, took a moment to let the material register. After what seemed like minutes – though Cas could only assume it hadn’t been more than a few seconds – the younger man smiled in that same bewilderment. That same shortage of understanding at just what it was the older man thought up when his mouth wasn’t moving.

And yet, if Sam only knew just what it was that went through the other man’s head, maybe he wouldn’t be smiling. 

“I’ve got a buddy back in town who deals old bikes,” Sam said then, turning his body so much so that his knee came up against the seat. “Cleans ‘em up and sells ‘em for cheap, if that’s what you’re looking for, though I wouldn’t recommend it for Alabama weather. Motorcycles aren’t exactly known for their abilities in heavy rain.”

“I am aware of the precautions I should be taking, Sam Winchester,” he replied coolly. “You don’t need to baby me.”

Sam could only smile at this comment, turning back so he could start up the engine once again. He puffed out those few chuckles with that same bafflement. 

The first stop on their list just so happened to be only a half a mile off. A Wal-mart seeing as department store clothes seemed the only thing the younger Winchester appeared to wear on regular occasion. They sifted through the aisles, Cas watching as Sam pulled t-shirts off the rack, rolling his eyes at the terrible graphics or shrugging his shoulders towards more appropriate pieces Cas had handed over for approval. And the older man was glad for this if only for the fact that it took the pressure off his own shoulders. 

When they’d managed to fill half the cart with a multitude of items ranging for jeans to spring jackets, Cas found himself heading towards the book section. He couldn’t remember where it was he’d lost Sam, just that the familiarity of surrounding himself with an aisle or two of books seemed too much a tempting offer to pass up. And it wasn’t nearly because of the choice of reading material. 

As he skimmed the rows upon rows of Oprah approved contemporary chapter books and Harlequin novels, he let the feeling of home wash through him fully. The feeling of that flat in Manhattan with the wide open windows and the modern furniture he’d let Gabriel pick out. He could just about feel that cool crisp of his fingers running along the spines of every book he’d ever read. And it wasn’t just the newer ones he’d picked up at the nearest book store on his lunch break. It was the abused ones, with cracked spines. The books that were well-loved, then forgotten, to be loved again by him. The used books he’d bought in bulk. The torn-cover novel he’d pulled from the shelf knowing full well no one would ever purchase it. 

He loved broken things. It was all he knew how to love. 

Here, surrounded by books he had no interest in reading, he let the cool draught of nostalgia in, and it sunk to the marrow like an anchor leading him closer to the edge of wherever he’d been left at the moment he’d grabbed his suitcase and walked out. 

“You don’t strike me as a Twilight fan,” Sam jested, seeming to fly in just about as fast as he disappeared, though there were a couple movies crooked under his left arm and a roll of unprimed canvas in the right. His hair was starting to fall out of that ponytail, clean little wisps catching in his crinkled eyes. “If you want books, I can lend you some good ones.”

“Thank you, Sam,” he said, turning his eyes back towards the sparse couple young adult novels he’d been standing in front of, not having noticed his apparent position. “I would appreciate it greatly.”

“You’re welcome, Cas. I’m just glad we’re on first name basis now.”

The next stop on the list had been groceries. Nothing extensive seeing as the most of the refrigerated items would have to be purchased closer to home. Just dried goods and baking supplies and a couple bottles of the best wine he could find. By the time he’d put the big paper bags in the back of the truck, he could feel himself visibly soften with a certain amount of relief. 

“So what next?” Sam said, leaning up against the side of the truck, body languid as it was long. 

“I feel that I may have ascertained the better portion of my list,” Cas replied, pulling out the sheet that had been unfolded and refolded multiple times. He shuffled about for a moment, appearing to discern this piece of information stoically. “Are there things you’d most like to do, Sam?”

“I’m kind of hungry, I guess.” 

“Then we shall eat, if you want to.”

“Good, cause I could just about eat a horse.” For some reason, this seemed like something Cas could imagine actually happening. 

After some deliberation, they settled on a Biggerson’s. It was some comfy affair with little diner-style tables and free refills on coffee. The service was friendly enough, and though the lights were a little bit too dim for the older man’s tastes, it did hold that same country charm that seemed so infectious.

Sam had ordered a Caesar salad with a side of sweet potato fries, enjoying the leafy green that appeared to be a much healthier choice than that initial breakfast. Cas ordered a plate of chicken tenders, dipping them in dollops of plum sauce with thick cut regular fries that he nibbled on occasionally. It wasn’t until a good half way through the meal though that he found himself watching a long arm reaching across the table, plucking one of the untouched breaded chunks while that face gave him a most devious smile. It earned a sour look in response. 

“Dean would have smacked me for that,” Sam said, picking apart the chicken between his fingertips. He seemed amused by the subject, or internally uneasy. “I kind of assumed you wouldn’t.”

Cas wasn’t sure if this made him happy, or disappointed. “You have fed me on more than one occasion now. It is only fair that I should do the same for you, albeit a little word of warning would be nice. I have no qualms against sharing my food.”

“And if I hadn’t, you know, shared food with you before,” he edged, fingers dancing across the distance between them once more, this time aiming for the fries. “Would you have told me no?”

The question had a certain viable curiosity to it, as if holding something of a truth far past simple inquiries on food sharing. And, though Cas had taken quite enough time to think about it, he knew the answer the moment the question had been asked. “No, I suppose not, Sam Winchester. I owe you a lot more than a plate of chicken tenders.” 

“Is that it, then.”

After a brief moment of silence, Cas reached across the table, not making a real hazardous attempt at being quick when he grabbed a few of the sweet potato fries from the younger man’s plate. He smiled at the furrowed brow he was greeted with. The confusion it ensued. “Maybe, though I should prefer to think of it as a mutual understanding. Are we off on the same foot, or separate, I wonder.”

The rest of the meal had gone by in muted concentration. And though it had appeased him to a certain amount he’d said something that made Sam really think, he felt the drudge still apparent in his sinews for every second those eyes were on him, unashamed as they were. 

The afternoon had been spent in the same flurry as the morning had, though this time it had been more leisurely. Sam had dragged him into hardware stores, helping pick out the wares and items the older man would need for the restoration of the plantation house. From scroll saws to sledge hammers and alike, the young Winchester appeared to know his way around do-it-yourself projects. It made Cas wonder how much work Sam must have put into that old kennel. How much he’d done fixing and priming and setting anew the falling, caving-in floorboards. The creaking steps and the flaking walls. 

He liked to think of Sam working, shirtless and confident. Pounding nails with an over-sized hammer, or cutting down wood planks to a useful size. It was a montage in his head that could only be described as embarrassing. 

The purchases – which were much more than he’d initially budgeted – were fit into the back of the truck, Sam offering the use of it whenever was most necessary. He also offered his help, if the time was convenient and he wasn’t needed at the kennel. Something that seemed far too tempting an offer to surmise. 

Afterwards, they visited used bookstores that Sam liked best, and Cas got his first taste of how smart the other man really was. As they walked down the overstuffed aisles and piles upon piles of paperbacks and hardcovers that lined the floor, the young Winchester grabbed at volumes of classic novels and pretentious contemporary fiction. Faulkner and Lovecraft. Bronte and Palahnuik. He poured over the pages of a beat of copy of the Kite Runner, handing it to Cas as if the book was worth far more than the three dollars marked on the inside of the cover with a piece of masking tape. It wasn’t until the older man’s arms were full and only a good thirty bucks were spent that they exited the store, Sam glowing with a post book shopping vivacity and a delight that seemed almost immeasurable. 

That was, at least, till the breeze brushed at the little wisps of hair, knocking about his perfect face. 

“Squalls coming in,” he said, voice down-turning as he dumped his own purchases in the front seat. “We’ll have to head back in soon if we’re looking to avoid getting caught here.”

Castiel, who saw only blue skies and a warm sun beating down, merely shrugged and hopped in the front seat. 

The last on their projected stops had also been the farthest from home. A little run-down bar located just north of Mobile, looking shabby and all too worse for wear. The aesthetic itself was that of backwater bayou, the blinking open-sign reflecting through a haze of mesh screen covers and bugs lilting around the shallow effervescence. There was a big wooden plank hung up across the front with a crudely painted inscription Cas could only assume read the bar’s name, but this was uncertain as some of the letters were now worn away. 

Even still, the place seemed alive for five o’clock. People were coming in and out the front door in groups, all casually dressed and well at ease for choosing to be a good distance outside of the city they undoubtedly came from, which made Cas wonder what could be so good about it. What could possibly draw people, and Sam, to some broken down shack?

But when they stepped inside, the smell of Cajun spices and Tabasco filling his nostrils, he suddenly had an inkling as to why. 

“Sam Winchester! Long time no see, boy.”

Across the small though heavily tabled floor strode a middle-aged woman of a fair stature, with heavy brown hair and a grin pulling at her weathered, though still very much endearing, features. As she approached, her hands lifted up to pat the younger man’s shoulders in an almost maternal sort of fluttery, and Sam, who had bee-lined it towards her, maneuvered around tables like they were hardly there at all. He was laughing loudly and genuinely though, that smile of his becoming all the more apparent and all too real. 

“Sorry I couldn’t visit sooner. Been so busy with the kennel lately it’s been murder trying to get out here,” he was saying, letting his fingers brush along her temple in a way that was affectionate, and bewildering to watch. The kind of motion that seemed honest, and brought a smile from the recipient of the gesture. “You’re looking well, Ellen. Not taking it too hard, I assume?”

“Not any harder than usual, though we’ve seen a full dinner rush more often than not these days. Good cooks are hard to find.”

“Can’t say I miss the work much,” he said, resting his hand against her shoulder. She had her own against her hips, brow perked. “So Benny’s been doing well then? I’m glad to here it.”

“He was a good recommendation. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

She turned her eyes towards Cas then, briefly though suspiciously, as if the very sight of him seemed unnatural. A hurried display that showed she wasn’t interested in knowing who he was, or how he ended up there, or why he’d shown up at Sam’s side. It was quite apparent in that quick look that his presence wasn’t necessary. 

And in that moment, he suddenly felt unbearably small. 

“By the way, this is Castiel Novak,” Sam said, edging for the older man to come towards him. He seemed so light of feature then, honest and warm. “Hey Cas, come here.”

Cas drew to him like moth to a flame. And maybe it was because of the fact that Sam was the largest thing in that room, steady and sure and mountain tall. A beacon that made him feel somehow less small being next to him. More powerful, like he’d felt behind that desk, with people desperate for his approval. Desperate for him to lay his judgments and his mercies. When he leaned himself against a brick wall, no wind could push him back. 

And maybe that was Sam. A brick wall he felt he needed. 

He took his spot beside Sam, a little closer than was generally comfortable though this hadn’t raised any clear unease from the young Winchester. In fact, he felt the cool brush of fingers against his forearm, just so that it was noticeable but not enough that it couldn’t be ruled off as an accident. 

“Cas, this is Ellen, an old family friend and my prior employer,” he said, gesturing towards the woman in question. “Cas here is my new assistant trainer.”

The woman smiled quickly, unconvincingly, hand reaching out which the older man felt obliged to return. When his fingers pressed against the open palm of the woman in question, he turned his eyes away, hoping to avoid seeing something he knew would only further his own self-doubt. 

“Assistant trainer, huh?” she asked, looking him over briefly. “Don’t look like you come from ‘round here.”

“I don’t,” he said mildly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m from New York originally.”

“Dean called in a favour,” Sam added, grabbing Cas’ shoulder with a strong, friendly grip. “Guy needed work. He may not look it but he’s been a great help round the kennel. Good with the dogs too.”

“A favour you say?” she asked, lip quirking briefly as if this information amused her. “I seem to recall many of Dean’s favours.”

And there was the breach. The little crack that Cas finally understood, and with frightening clarity. This wasn’t the first time Sam had brought someone here. 

“Not that kind of favour,” he replied, tone dropping an octave. “Ellen.”

“I pass no unnecessary judgments,” she said, raising her hands up in mock surrender. “I just know your brother. Forgive me for being nosy.”

There was a brief pause in conversation then, one of which seemed to stretch for minutes though Cas couldn’t assume it had been anymore than a few seconds. Ellen shuffled once, then twice, looking as if she were about to say something but refraining from doing exactly so. Sam, whose hand had slipped away from Cas’ shoulder, let it dangle in just a way that the back of it skimmed the skin of Cas’ wrist, unmoving and purposeful. Cas could feel his body respond in kind, willing his fingers to stay still instead of completing the path into what could only be described as forbidden territory. 

He wanted to hold Sam’s hand, though. Desperately. 

“I suppose you’re looking to come see Jo, then,” Ellen said, breaking the silence once more. And there was an almost apologetic tone about it, though only mildly. She still seemed defiant of the subject, but only so much that it showed in her brow. “She’s at the bar. Why don’t you go visit while I finish busing the tables, kay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sam said. His fingers drew along Cas’ sleeve softly before tapping the wrist itself with more resolve. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

That sounded like a more approachable option. 

The bar was a long, polished sort of business. The kind where you could see all the bottles running along the very back of it, illuminated by whatever lights had been running in the kitchen behind it. And there were trays filled with peanuts, a TV blaring the first round of the Stanley cup finals, which was an odd nostalgic feeling now that he was here and not in the cool spring of New York. He’d almost assumed hockey didn’t exist this far down south, and for the most part, he wasn’t surprised to find the tube had gone unnoticed. 

One girl had been manning the bar with a seemingly all-knowing vivacity, filling shots and pints, and wiping down counters with an ease of motion. She seemed at home behind the bar, lazy slump to her shoulders and a smile sometimes pulling at just the edges of her lips as if something amused her enough to warrant it, but a hard enough shell deferring these thoughts to only the briefest of emotions. An admonition seemed to be written across every surface of her. 

When she looked over, though, the smile seemed to come out full force. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” she said, sliding a pint of bud across the counter towards the older man she’d been chatting with prior. She strode towards them, taking a spot just in front of where Sam had ushered him to sit. “Sam Winchester in the flesh. Thought you’d never show.”

“Hey Jo,” he said, sitting down next to Cas. He rested his thick forearms against the countertop, fingers running along the surface with quick, rhythmic taps. “Long time no see.”

“You’re telling me. What’s been so time consuming you couldn’t get out here for a visit? It’s been what, a month now?”

Sam merely shrugged, turning his eyes towards the other man briefly as if in some form of an apology before flicking back towards the small blond. He returned the easy smile back to his features, though now it seemed almost placed. “I guess I just lost track of time. Things have been real busy at the kennel these days.”

Jo frowned, seemingly unconvinced though she didn’t voice her suspicions any further. Instead, she turned towards Cas, eyeing him with a curiosity that held no malcontent. Which was a relief, if he were being honest. 

“And who might you be?” she asked outright, not bothering with pleasantries. 

“Jo, this is Castiel Novak, my new assistant trainer,” he said, gesturing between them once more. “Cas, this is Jo Harvelle.”

“I’ve seen everyone ‘round these parts but I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen you before,” she said, elbow against the countertop, dark eyes seeming to take him in in one deep gulp. “You new or something?”

“Dean sent him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sam said, and his voice took that turn once more. Almost defensive, as if he were hoping to avoid a secondary confrontation. 

Jo raised her hands up in mock surrender, feigning naivety, before turning herself completely towards the older man. There was a softness in the crinkle of her eyes though. A warmth that he felt almost surprised by. 

“He has a habit of leaving a nice long trail of broken hearts, don’t he?” she said. “I wouldn’t beat yourself up over it too much if I were you.”

Cas could feel his stomach knot at her words. 

Sam turned his eyes towards him then with that same apologetic tone to his features, lips forming something barely readable as it had been so quiet and well hidden. But Cas could see it just slightly on the bed of that smooth lower lip. An ‘I’m sorry’ resonated throughout his very core. 

“Seems we’re in for a bit of a storm boys,” she said, reaching under the table for three shot glasses that she dropped on the countertop before filling them with some foreign liquor in a quick succession. “If you’re in need, we’ve got one more room available though it ain't much. I’d suggest calling it a night if you’re looking to avoid getting caught up.”

“You might be right,” Sam said. He took the glass and downed it like he would a shot of water. His lips pulled at the corners when the after burn caught him, but he levelled out only seconds later, slamming the glass back down. “And I may just take you up on that offer.”

Cas, who grabbed the shot within his fingers, tipped it back stoically. He knew he should have been dwelling on what had been said, because it should have made him feel terrible. But at that moment, all he could think about was that old weathered plantation house, and the probability of it one day falling to ruin because of storms like these. It was just a matter of time.


	5. Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm rolls in. Cas comes to find himself in a particular situation not anticipated, and with the worsening weather so does things change between him and Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning now, there's a bit of smut in this chapter. And the mood does worsen so keep that one in mind!
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my lovely beta miss Tsundwarf for her perfect editing and her brilliant way of telling me I'm being stupid in the most polite ways. Honestly, I couldn't be more thrilled to have her on board. 
> 
> Anywho, sorry for the long wait yet again. Hope the length of the chapter makes up for it!

Chapter 5: Melt

_He awoke to the sound of work boots just barely skimming his apartment floor._

_Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed under better, or different, circumstances. After all, this wasn’t exactly a normal occurrence that Cas brought anyone home, let alone waking to find they hadn’t simply dodged out after the act had been committed. In his own case, he could remember slinking out of those motel rooms, not having the wits about him to attempt a genuine conversation with whomever had managed to pick him up._

_But in the case of Dean, he’d wanted to talk more. He knew it from the moment he’d leaned across that short distance and claimed a pair of lips that never should have been close enough to kiss._

_In any case, it was quite apparent the young Winchester was attempting to be as quiet as possible, and it left Cas wondering if maybe he’d seen the other side of the scenario for the first time._

_“Leaving so soon?”_

_He wasn’t sure why he’d said anything. After all, if he’d only waited just a few seconds more, he should have found himself incapable of attempting such a ridiculous move. He would have resigned to the fact that the beautiful boy with those green eyes and a fine, smooth mouth, had enjoyed a moment with him would, in turn, leave before that moment could be spoiled by something as simple as basic human emotion. In this particular case, Cas feared any emotion at all had the potential of being saturated with guilt._

_The young mechanic had halted, which Cas could only tell by the sound of his footfalls having stilled. He opened his eyes at this point, having had them squeezed shut, too afraid that maybe it would hurt if Dean just left like that, without a word. That if he saw him do it, it would be like the glass would overflow and seep its contents on the pages of his already swollen mind. Could it be that it mattered enough he’d said something? This, he was certain, he could never admit to feeling._

_“Cas buddy,” Dean said, voice raspy still with sleep but also higher. Surprised, almost. He was standing in the dim light of the early morning sun, jacket in the one hand, doorknob in the other. He seemed a deer in headlights then. “I, uh, I’ve gotta be at work in a few and I-”_

_Buddy. Another drop in the bloated glass. “Don’t let me stop you.”_

_He paused, fingers playing at that door handle, before dropping back down to his side unceremoniously. It was like watching a soap opera unfold, unlike the ones Cas had chanced to glance upon when flipping through channels on those nights he’d decided were best spent alone, and simply because Dean was more a revelation than he was a pretty face. Just, nothing good came from the instance of knowledge gained in a stolen moment._

_But he was still here, and looking as mightily embarrassed as one could expect someone having been caught in the act to look. “I’m not good at morning after scenarios. Hell, I’m not really good at talking without a couple drinks.”_

_It was charming enough, and the sincerity was there. An admittance almost, though Cas had heard many stories, and he wasn’t quite sure if he was interested in hearing one of the same. “Is that meant to be your excuse, Dean Winchester?”_

_Those smooth lips pulled at the corners, fingers of his right hand clasping and unclasping whilst those eyes jetted towards the floor, then back up, then towards the wall as if it could give him a proper response. “I-uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”_

_He had to admit, the bluntness was also charming even if still something of a painful saturation. Cas sat up, pushing himself back against the headboard so he could pull his knees up and in, still naked but blanketed by the warmth of familiar sheets. And he could feel the looks upon him now, even with his own eyes geared towards his callused hands. Carvers hands. He used to think that somewhere, deep down, they were meant for creating things. In any case, the eyes that dwelled on him were ones he knew well enough, because he’d chanced to feel the same before leaving and never returning. Of how simple things could be if only no one would get hurt in the end._

_He supposed it might have been why he gave such an offhanded proposition._

_“I think you have my sincerities wrong, Dean Winchester. I liked what we did and I should suspect I would like it again if given the chance, but want nothing more than you are able to provide, you understand.”_

_When he looked up, Dean’s brow had creased considerably, marking a certain amount of suspicion, but undeniable curiosity. “More than I can provide?”_

_“Yes,” Castiel said, cool, composed. And the words were out before there was a way to take them back. “I don’t need excuses and I don’t need guilt either. If you want something from me, take it without remorse. If you want nothing more than to slip into my bed, then it is always open to you. This is an arrangement I would very much like to strike.”_

_The crease had softened, taut lips smooth, though surprise was more apt an expression than calmness. Dean stopped clenching his hands. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”_

_“Please be aware, I do not often partake in the act of insincerity.”_

_“No, no, I get that,” he said, brows furrowed as he tried to discern what it all could mean. After all, and as much as Cas should have preferred him to be different, there was something about Dean that gave off a sense of caring just enough that it hurt. “I just can’t really get my head around what you’re trying to say here. Are you, er, offering-?”_

_Cas could only smile at this, even if weaker than that he’d depicted when he’d felt something more genuine than what had been put before him now. The moment was over, dashed before him as all fairytale aspirations had been a long time ago. To believe in something as valiant as belonging to someone only ends in unhappiness. Apathy is much stronger a medicine than any a warm pair of arms could deliver. But he wasn’t looking for an antidote now._

_“If by offering you mean casual sex then yes,” he said, turning his eyes to meet Dean once more. “It’s all I’ll give you and it’s all I would expect in return. The choice is yours.”_

\--

Maybe he’d had more to drink than he should have.

It started with a couple shots. A steady stream from the young blond who seemed to take an amusement in him. After the sixth or seventh, he could feel his tendons relax somewhat, conversation seeming to come less forced and easier with every passing moment. And yet, each time he’d taken one down, it had earned a surprised look from both Sam and Jo. It wasn’t until the eighth shot that he realized they weren’t drinking quite as much as he had.

“I have a high tolerance,” Cas said, fingers playing along the rim of the glass in a slow, measured drawl.

“No shit you do,” Jo said, shaking her head. “Good God.”

Sam only seemed to smile at this, gesturing for two beers instead of another round. Cas was somewhat thankful for this if only for the fact his mind was starting to swim with the glow of post alcoholic bliss. To feel the need for inhibitions falter, which was something he knew he needed to keep fully in check. It wasn’t that Castiel couldn’t control himself. Just that, at some point, he wouldn’t want to, and that point was something he needed to avoid.

Conversation had been good, though. Maybe better than he should have expected.

“So you two are old family friends?” Cas asked, after hearing a number of stories from their youth. Mostly Jo speaking, because Sam looked awfully embarrassed any time his name had been brought up. It seemed even then that Dean had a hold on everyone around him, because it was Dean who perpetrated each story. Who lead them into those tales of sneaking out and doing things that probably shouldn’t have been done. Things Cas would never have tried in his youth, though he supposed this might have differentiated considerably if the Winchesters had been a part of it.

Yes, if Sam and Dean had entered his life early on, he couldn’t assume anything would really be the same.

“Mum and Bobby were pretty close,” Jo said, resting her elbows down on the countertop once more. “And you know Dean. Hasn’t stopped working since he was old enough to know what work even was. So yeah, I guess you could say it’s a familial tie.”

“Mister Singer’s a good man.”

“A great man,” Sam corrected, speaking for the first time in what felt like hours. “He’s done more for us then I can ever repay him for. More than I could have ever asked for, either.”

The insight was there. Just a small crack in that ever undulating exterior. Cas turned his eyes towards Sam, taking in the smooth, pensive brow. The lips that had been pulled taut, only moving when the bottle pressed against that plump lower one. And it was as if all his fears seemed to dissipate. To heat up then burn out in the pit of his ever growing interest. Yes, maybe he had had too much to drink.

“Rush hours comin’ in, boys,” Jo said, eyeing the group of damp, plaid wearing strangers that crowded in along the bar, chatting animatedly with one another. It signaled that the rain must have started, though Cas could only make this assumption based upon the drenched fabrics. She headed in their direction anyways, pulling that half-hearted smile and a strong, friendly voice. Jo was some kind of special for being able to deal with people the way she did. She called back with the same courteousness of tone. “Just let me know if you need anything. Sam, you know where to find the keys.”

He merely shrugged at this, smiling quickly before taking another long drag from that bottle.

Cas played his fingers along the red label, catching himself staring because he liked to stare at Sam. And, if he were being as honest with himself as he should have been from the start, maybe he wanted to stare at Sam a lot more often. It wasn’t in his nature to be distant about his desires, nor his hopes. Just that he didn’t know what was right anymore and maybe that was for the better.

There was a disaster there, under that firm expression. A hurricane just waiting to burst through skin and wreck havoc on the ones around him. Sam was a beautiful tragedy just as Dean had been.

And yet not. The difference was there, so subtle it couldn’t be named. He wondered if it had to do with that moment in the younger man’s bedroom when his features fell for just the briefest of moments. After all, he didn’t collapse under the weight, nor did he acknowledge the pain of it. He’d simply let the vulnerability through, and for that seconds span of time, he was the beauty of humanity.

Cas felt suddenly and anxiously adrift.

“I wonder if it might be better to try and brave that storm,” Sam said, and with a quickness that set Cas off-guard. “I uh, I don’t want to put Ellen out for a room if they’re expecting a storm tonight. You’re probably looking to get home too, am I right?”

“I’m fine with whatever decisions you should prefer to make, Sam,” he said, no real strength of conviction laced behind his words. “Please don’t feel obliged to leave because of my presence.”

“It’s not you, it’s-.” he stopped mid-sentence, hands raised as if to defer the prior statement yet stilling as the words cooled and died out. “I mean, I’m just thinking of the dogs.”

Or maybe it was him. Maybe it had everything to do with him. After all, it wasn’t exactly in the younger man’s personality set to be anxious about anything and worry didn’t exactly appear to be his emotional status as of then. Just, what it meant and why it so suddenly made an appearance seemed awfully out of place. It could only mean he warranted the distance, the anxiety.

“Have I done something to displease you, Sam?” he asked then, because he was tired of being subtle.

“No, Cas, I-.” the younger man paused, took a deep breath, then shuddered it out. After a moment, he took his bottle in hand once more, drained the contents of it in one heady gulp, then stood. “Let’s just go home, okay?”

“If you insist.”

Sam proceeded to drop a couple bills on the counter, gesturing a quick wave towards the young blond who reciprocated with a raised brow and a confused expression. He didn’t falter though with any more pleasantries. Instead, he headed towards the door, Cas nearly having to jog to keep up with his quick, long-legged steps. And it seemed that they’d just about gotten away without saying any real goodbyes now that they were striding through the onslaught of sleeted, heavy rain. Cold and chilling and all at once. The truck was parked only a good couple feet away, but it was enough that the distance made them walk through it.

That was, of course, till Ellen burst out the door behind them, hands on her hips and an angry scowl making itself known across her weathered features.

“Sam Winchester, you get your scrawny ass back inside,” she said with that same strength of tone and severity that stopped Cas dead in his tracks. Sam merely pivoted half towards her, lips downturned and body now soaked with cold rain. “There’s a massive squall about to hit and you’ve been drinkin’, boy. I’m not letting you get killed tonight.”

The younger man seemed almost annoyed by the intrusion, looking as if he were about to say something on the contrary but holding his tongue with a practiced patience. He looked at Cas once, nodded his head at the unavoidable, then headed back in. Cas followed behind him, starting to feel a pattern arise.

“I’ll get you the keys to the spare room, and you best not be givin’ me any lip about it,” she said when they’d both entered, her hand coming up to grasp at a wet shoulder. “There’s no reason for stupidity like that. Not ‘round here.”

Cas rubbed his cold hands together then before pausing to wipe back the damp locks off his forehead. And it was a distinctly familiar feeling, being wet again and without having a chance of clothing to warm him. For the most part, though, he accepted what he’d received with a certain amount of reverence. It was better to be alive and wet than dead and also wet. And he had Ellen to thank for that, even if he wasn’t quite sure if and how he would ever get the chance to voice his appreciation. Just, something seemed intensely awkward about the whole situation which hadn’t registered prior to having been soaked down. He wondered if maybe the rain had sobered him up enough to realize it.

Ellen handed Sam a pair of keys, told him a room number, and instructed him to put his wet clothes out because there was no way she was going to let him catch cold due to some silly stint. She had the look of a mother hen with its feather ruffled. Sam, on the other hand, seemed just about as cool and composed as ever. He merely nodded, took the keys in hand, then gestured for Cas to follow him once more. The older man followed without complaint.

In all honesty, it could’ve been worse.

“Of course we get room 14,” Sam said, shaking his head. He looked not quite pleased with his situation, though not really having the time or energy to complain about it. “Why am I not surprised.”

“It seems likely enough quarters,” Cas said, voice rough. The room itself was dark, and a little worse for wear what with the creaky, secondhand furniture. The floral upholstered pull out couch that had a large pot balancing on it which was, in turn, catching a slowly dripping leak, and the creaking floorboards that were spotted with stains Cas was quite sure he didn’t want to know the origins of. Even the queen-sized bed seemed hard and uncomfortable, covered in a scratchy blanket, it’s only redeeming quality seeming to be it’s clean sheets, piled as they were.

The room was clean, though. Orderly with it’s little Cathode Ray tube elevated in the corner equipped with a VHS player, or the small shag carpet that had been pristinely vacuumed even with the coffee stain clearly visible along the edges of it. It was good enough for Cas, who’d been sleeping in the dusty plantation house for those past few days so the freshness of air quality had been a bonus.

Sam, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be all that thrilled.

“Better hope that tarp holds out the night,” he was saying, pacing then as if the very movement would bring him some kind of relief. “Otherwise, I’m out of dog food for the week.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He sighed anyways, striding back and forth across the small expanse that was their room. He even went so far as to pinch the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

Cas only watched him for a moment, taking in the sight of what he could only assume would be the decomposition of Sam. The break in that rock hard face leaving him anxious and nervous and all things Cas couldn’t assume Sam had ever been, let alone was now. It was oddly placed next to that smooth grin he’d been the recipient of for the better portion of the day.

And it made him feel, somehow, guiltier. More ashamed.

“My presence is displeasing,” he said, this time not a question. “I have distressed you and now we are stuck here.”

Sam stopped pacing, hand dropping to his side once more. And the look on his face had been something Cas hadn’t expected to see. A certain amount of surprise embedded in the raised curve of his brow. He shuffled from one foot to the next, shaking his head.

“No Cas, honestly. You’re not, er, displeasing me in the least,” he said, of which brought a certain amount of colour up to the older man’s cheeks. Cas had hoped it was because of the alcohol, and if it wasn’t, he still had something to blame.

Sam reached into his pocket then, producing an old style Samsung cellphone of which he flipped open methodically. He then gestured towards the door, signalling the worn housecoats Cas could only assume was what he was supposed to change into.

“Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes while I make a call,” he said, eyeing the older man’s soaked apparel. “I know how poorly you take to being cold.”

Cas merely shrugged, then turned to do exactly what he was told. Sam had strode into the small adjacent bathroom, closing the door behind him whilst he typed at the small keypad, big fingers seeming oddly adept for having such a tiny phone.

It wasn’t until he heard the click of the lock that Castiel began peeling off wet layers, dropping them in the wicker hamper by the front door, and he was careful to remove his personal effects. The Blackberry, for one, which he dried off with one of the towels left on the rotund coffee table, and his leather wallet which he made sure hadn’t received the same treatment as his clothes had. All the while, even as he neared becoming completely nude, he could hear Sam talking through the thin bathroom door. The conversation was hurried, and spoken in soft voices, but still quite audible to the older man.

“I’m sorry, I know I said I’d be home by eight,” he was saying, sounding overly apologetic. Almost too sincerely. “The squalls getting bad and I, yeah, I know. Just stay the night then. There’s clean sheets upstairs if you need them. Yeah, yeah I know you’re busy in the morning. I’ll be in as soon as I possibly can be. And no, Pam, I’m not out getting laid. Now is really not the time- okay, okay. Bye”

Cas quickly slipped on the housecoat that he’d been holding for a little over a minute, not having moved from the spot he’d taken. And he’d tied it up just in time, Sam unlocking the door and heading in the small room with a calm expression though he had seemed a bit out of breath.

He looked at Cas only briefly, first with a certain amount of exasperation as if the conversation had drawn it out of him. But after a point he seemed to still , and his eyes dropped for that half-second. Just a quick motion that could have easily been ruled off, yet the older man felt it more strongly than he had the first time Sam had looked at him in that same fashion. Albeit more slowly and dragged out at the time.

Maybe it had been because of the quickness in it. The flush of embarrassment for having even tried to look, that made the motion so effective. Because Sam had that shameful look upon his brow now, like he’d done something he wasn’t supposed to. And Cas, who’d paid so close attention to each clean transition from one layer of Sam to the next, found it almost too aptly appealing to see the effect it left.

He’d had too much to drink. He knew he did, which was why he suddenly wanted Sam more than he could have explained by any stretch of the imagination.

“Who was that?” he asked, eyeing the phone in the younger man’s hand then as if it held all the answers. “A girlfriend I presume?”

“I-uh, no, no Pam’s a family friend,” Sam said, shuffling again. He smiled that quick, awkward smile, raising his hand up to scratch at his long tresses once more before letting it drop back down to his side. And Cas watched as the younger man’s fists gripped then loosened, skin pulling taut in brief though candid intervals. He wanted to kiss them smooth, to calm the strain in Sam’s wrists if only he hadn’t been the cause of it.

“I see,” he said, sequential and to the point. The response that would have fallen behind any lack of a better offering, and he let it roll off his tongue in the coolest of measures. Just a quick seep through the crack.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I have not once admonished to your having been untruthful, Sam Winchester. It is none of my business whether you are, or not, in fact, telling a falsehood.”

Sam’s lips pursed momentarily, hands gripping once again. “I wasn’t asking whether you thought it was your business or not. You don’t _believe_ me.”

“Then what is it you’d like me most to believe in?” he responded, still cool. Still standing next to the front door with bare, cold feet and damp, wet hair. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in that scratchy looking bed. To warm his aching joints and the feel the deep claws of sleep drag him under. He was so tired of holding himself together. Tired because he knew what he wanted, and he certainly knew he couldn’t take it. “I don’t like conjecture, nor do I like discussing semantics-.”

“I’m not asking for you to believe in anything,” Sam said, this time showing that same exasperation. He turned back, falling into a brisk pace, hand running through his hair with a look of unfettered consternation making its way across his disquieted features. He looked at Cas in brief interims, as if willing himself to say something but not really knowing exactly what or how. After a moment of this, he gave up and began pacing again. “I just need us to be on the same page.”

“About what?”

“About _everything_.”

Cas knew there was something he wasn’t quite grasping, and Sam wasn’t exactly making it easy to read. In fact, if anything, the whole scene had been about as one-sided as it could get without clearly unraveling any kind of mystery. It was just a ribbon that seemed to be curling tighter and tighter around him, promising him nothing could come of it but suffocation.

And yet, for some strange inexplicable reason, all he could think of then was the look of vulnerability on Sam’s face when the topic of Jess had been breached. How he’d let it slide in that moment. Just a brief glimpse behind the calm, stark exterior.

Then it dawned on him.

“You are aware of my attraction,” he said plainly, without shame. “And it makes you uncomfortable. You are trying to tell me this, am I correct?”

Sam stopped pacing, eyes wide and mouth softening from that taut line. “Cas, I-.”

“I have been too forward with my feelings,” he continued, not giving the other man a chance to speak. His hands raised, palms up, eyes staring down at them in mute horror. “It was not in my intentions to be so upfront as my regard reflects nor would I choose to make you feel the need to soften the proverbial blow in deeming my affections unceremonious. I hope that my actions have not caused you to feel my presence as anything more than a necessary burden, though I shall gladly sleep elsewhere if it has. Just tell me what would suit your needs and I will gladly-, Sam?”

The younger man was moving towards him now, strides smooth and long and powerful. And those fists of his had loosened though the face he was greeted with had hardened considerably. To a point where he felt he should have been bracing himself, because it wasn’t a look of vulnerability now. Just force, and anger. Sam looked positively livid.

He didn’t brace himself, though. Because he knew he deserved whatever came to him. If Sam was going to punch him, or shove him, he would take it like a man.

But what he hadn’t expected was for those hands to grasp hold of his face. For those hard, angry lips to press against his own in a way that made his entire body slacken under the fierce touch. And it had been such a surprise that he couldn’t close his eyes for fear he couldn’t find a better reaction to it, air sucked in hotly through his nose, and body slamming back against the closed door. Sam’s fingers slid up into the older man’s hair, pulling it taut within his fist.

“You make me so angry,” he said, voice raspy and thick, talking so close Cas could feel that smooth mouth move against his own. “And confused, and upended, and I honestly don’t care if you’re some fucking master plan Dean’s got packed under his sleeve. I don’t know what you’re aiming for or if this is going to fuck me over in the long run. Just. Stop. Talking.”

Those lips came down again, seeking, pulling, pressing hard and fast, because this was so wrong and it was a thousands shades of stupid, but it was so good. And it welled up and over just as quickly as it had formed, spiraling on the end of a gun cocked and ready to fire. Cas could feel his body respond in kind, hands grasping at the wet cloth of Sam’s plaid shirt, desperate and confused and overwhelmed.

Sam was a hurricane. A force that was drowning him out slowly, pushing him so far from the edge he was certain he’d die there if he didn’t dig his nails deep enough. And when that knee came up to part his own, he damn near did, fingers dragging along the younger man’s back so sharply the material began to fray.

This couldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be happening. He could feel the slick of wet jean between his bare thighs, the mouth that was straying along his jaw pulling back to let sharp teeth nick along the sensitive flesh, and it was all he could do to hold back the noise that threatened escape. It was like nothing he’d ever felt all compiled and compressed into one moment. He was being dominated. He was letting it go.

And he didn’t know how.

“I’m going to untie this now,” Sam murmured, letting his hands drop to where the housecoat had been knotted in haste. And though it had not been a question, he was breathing with a quick shallowness, eyes swimming as they flitted across Cas’ features, searching for consent. And the emotion was not easily disguised now that he was so close, sunflower irises seeming to shake within his corneas the moment he’d settled upon Cas’ own. He didn’t break the eye contact though, even as his hands fumbled in an attempt at removing the obstacle between them.

It was as if all the air in the room condensed. Becoming so thick it couldn’t be pulled on for any comfort, and maybe that was for the better. Because he was so suffocated with his own conscience then, like it was something unavoidable, holding him so still and with such need. He hadn’t been touched in months because of it, always lingering. Always insatiable.  
The housecoat came undone, and this time Sam took his time.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said as if to confirm everything Castiel felt within his chest. He didn’t stop though, not as he helped slide the thick towel-like material off the older man’s shoulders, stepping back so there’d be enough room to let it drop. And Cas, who’d followed those hazel-green orbs, didn’t hold himself in, hands still against his sides even as the cloth slid past them and bunched up on the scuffed floors. His body flushed with nakedness, but his head stayed still, jaw firm. He wasn’t a blushing, burning thing that could be melted and molded and pried open like some virgin flower. He was stone and metal. He was time itself, embodied.

And he certainly wasn’t some girl that Sam could love and leave. Nor did he want to be loved, then. Because love was what made him ache, and made him so obediently afraid of what was to come.

“Your move, Winchester,” he said then, rough and sexed out. “So make your choice and be content.”

It took all of a half second before that mouth latched onto his neck, body drawn into this tight circle of those powerful arms. He let his head fall back, savoring the feel of lips against skin, or the way the damp material pressed against his chest and stomach. Against his ever hardening manhood which had been left quiet and unattended till then. He wanted to raise his hands, to bury them in the wet tresses of Sam’s thick, beautiful hair and tug it back just as his had been. But he let the other man move. Let the world spin so quickly he thought he could feel the physical quake of it under his feet.

“I want to touch you,” he gasped, when that mouth had wandered lower, teeth sinking into the skin just above his collarbone. Sam responded in a low grunt, distracted as he moved on and with devastating purpose. It made him shiver for want of a different kind of friction. For heat instead of cold, uncomfortable fabric. For the slide of skin against his own, because he’d missed it so damn much, and he wondered if this was some mad attempt at gaining something he craved. Supplementing it with the nearest thing he had to bliss.

He ground his teeth on the idea. He wanted to spit it out and stomp it under his foot.

“Bed?” Sam asked, pulling back then. He started unbuttoning his own shirt with a sloppy quickness, after having gestured towards the hard mattress, the question still visible in the curve of his brow. Cas simply nodded, pivoting around the much taller man before heading towards the subject of said speech, determined to keep his back straight and his body bared even when he felt the strain of what he could only assume had been nerves. Sam was gorgeous under his clothes, so perfectly sculpted it left him feeling almost soft in comparison. And Cas wasn’t soft though he’d always preferred pressing himself into something warm and smooth and cushioned.

He stood by the end of it. Facing Sam who had yet to turn, watching with a hard expression as the younger man stripped layers off of layers. Till the tanned expanse of a muscular back greeted him, promising a strong surface for Cas’ nails to be let loose against. It was appealing in the same way it had been when he’d walked in that first afternoon, Sam’s feet elevated and those papers hanging loosely between his fingers. Appealing in the same way it had been when that smiling face greeted him through the onslaught of soapy water and wet, balled rags.

Finally, and without further adieu, Sam turned to face Cas, the look on his face being of someone nervous, but someone who was also being plated with something too good to be true.

“Damn, New York,” he said, hands balling against the pockets of his wet jeans.

The next part was a bit of a blur. Maybe because Sam had, once again, cleared the room in three quick, easy steps, hands reaching for Cas’ face which he took between them with a delicate possessiveness that screamed uncertainty. But his lips were sure when they met, tongue soft against the hard line of the older man’s, still unready for the intrusion. Still a step behind even when he was naked and hard and so ready to be touched.

“L-let me,” Cas said, breaking the kiss only seconds after it began, playing with the hem of the younger man’s pants, holding himself close again because he could feel the press of Sam’s bare chest against his own. Could feel the swell of it as he took in each quick, eager breath like they would be his last. Cas guided him towards the edge of the bed, pushing him only slightly so that the backs of his knees would give against the hard mattress. Enough so that he toppled against it, elbows bracing him from falling completely back, though it hadn’t been a surprise then. Because Sam wouldn’t have been manhandled so easily.

No, as much as Sam talked a big game, and pushed with the desperation of someone who wanted to fuck hard, he still couldn’t get past his own sensibilities. He didn’t want to hurt Cas, even if he wasn’t sure how. And he didn’t want to hurt himself, because it could be so easy. And maybe that was the beauty of it, because they were both holding onto that thread of reality.

Because Sam was in love with Jess, and Jess was gone.

Cas dropped to his knees, hands smoothing along the cool jean, nails skimming ever so softly because he was being delicate then. Purposefully decisive with his somewhat out-of-body experience, though he did lean his physical self forward, precatory. He looked up to see those sunflower eyes peering back down, questioning and curious. A willfulness took over that left his ribcage feeling battered and worn through from that damn stammering. That odd thudding within his chest.

Even as he reached up to unzip the fly of Sam’s jeans, he could feel the thick depth of his regret surface. Feel it curving through his veins like some foreign object, tainting each cell with a knowingness that this was wrong. And that he needed it to be wrong, because nothing could ever be right again. He leaned closer, breath hot against the open flap as he guided Sam’s hardening cock from it’s confines. Hot against the swollen head of which he mouthed slowly, taking his time.

He needed to remember this feeling. Needed to capture it because he was giving up for the very first time, and there was nothing that held him true to Dean anymore. This moment made him undesirable, and unworthy.

Because loving Dean was never enough. And he would never be enough.

“Cas,” Sam let the name fall from his lips like a breath might, leaning back further against his forearms as Cas slid his mouth over the head of his cock. He took it all down slowly and surely. A motion that produced more sounds from the younger man than he expected to hear. “Cas, oh God. Cas.”

He merely hummed a gentle response, suctioning with hollowed cheeks before bobbing back. Inducing more groans and pleasant sighs. He wondered if this was how Dean tasted, because he couldn’t remember any further. He had lost the memory just as he’d lost his patience, and his need for approval. And maybe, one day, he would lose the ache in his chest when he compared everyone he met with that mechanic from Singer’s garage.

“Hey, hey Cas, look at me.” Worry. It was a sound he was unsure of at first, because it didn’t make any sense. When the focus came back, and he looked up to meet the tense expression of the man above him, he was just barely aware of the beaded tears that were making a slow path down his cheeks. He didn’t remember crying, nor did he feel the need to then. Just, for some reason, his body had responded to his thoughts with a physical reaction. And it wasn’t a good one.

He let Sam’s cock go, sitting back against his heels so he could wipe the stray tears away before they threatened to fall in a steadier stream. And his body ached then like it hadn’t in a long time, singing with some foreign weight unbeknownst to him till then. He felt like hyperventilating, which was something he’d never done in his life. Why he was reacting so suddenly and so outside of his character traits was something that confused and befuddled him, to the point that the air started to puff out of his mouth quickly and without pause.

Sam, who’d watched the whole scene conspire, lurched forward, his arms coming around Cas’ shoulders in a manner that made the distance something of the past, his furrowed brow and curious eyes bringing Cas’ own into focus. He spoke with a calm conviction that bordered understanding. “We don’t need to do this, Cas. We never needed to do this.”

Cas shook his head, the puffs coming out stronger now. He felt overwhelmed with his body then, because it didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. Not when he could think so rationally and yet see it all fall to ruin when he tried to suck a dick. It wasn’t like him to show his sadness, but to bear it like it was something he deserved. “No, Sam. No, just sit, okay? I can continue.”

Sam wasn’t convinced. It was clear when he made no move to get up, nor in his calm expression as he rubbed circles into Cas’ neck, then up along his hairline. He waited patiently, watching as Cas’ breath became less forced and slower, though never really seeming to go back to that same pace he’d been used to his entire life. Slow enough that it wasn’t scary anymore. That it showed Cas could calm down on his own.

“You’re not ready for this,” he said, same conviction. “And don’t try to convince me otherwise. You’re here which means Dean broke your heart.”

Cas felt his fingers prying at the floorboards, desperate. Because those soothing circles along his neck were calming him down. And he wanted to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked. He didn’t want to be loved by Sam, or by anyone. He just needed to feel.

“I want you to do this, Sam,” he said deliberately, keeping his voice as even as his breathing would permit. “Can you do this for me?”

Sam still had that suspicious look about him, but after a moment he acquiesced, standing then with a hand out for the older man’s. “Only if we do it my way. I’m not gonna let you dwell anymore.”

He nodded, taking the offered hand with an unavoidable hesitance.

In seconds, he had been swept up into those thick, comforting arms, being kissed so deeply he could feel it within his fingertips, every nerve alight and at attention. He found his fingers sliding under the hem of those jeans once more as he was slowly lowered against the mattress, pinned underneath that thick chest, letting the sensations consume his thoughts instead of the prior onslaught that had kept him detached and awake. Now it was just Sam, large and real and making it hard to think of anything but those sunflower eyes and that plump lower lip he willed himself not to bite.

“You’re gonna keep your eyes on me,” he said, giving Cas enough room so they could crawl up the bed. And the older man could feel each quick hot press of lips between each sentence, as if the very thought of speaking instead of kissing was too much. “You’re gonna stop thinking for just a moment, and we’re gonna do this nice and slow.”

Oh God, did he want it slow. He was grasping at Sam’s shoulders, feeling the brush of very short stubble against his cheeks when the younger man swept down to remove his own jeans. And it was a difficult process, what with Cas’ parted legs getting in the way, and then the task almost being completely abandoned when Sam’s cock rubbed up against his own for the first time, sending shrill bursts of pleasure through each sinew. But they managed, sliding under the irritating blanket and sheet so that Cas wouldn’t feel the scratch of it as the younger man pumped them together lazily. Taking his time just as he promised.

“Look at me, Cas,” he was saying, breathless now, wrist twisting in just a way that it left Cas panting and uncoordinated. “Don’t you close your eyes. Just keep looking at me.”

He nodded, breathless and tight, wondering how it could have happened. How he was letting those fingers pull him closer to the smooth expanse of brow. The thin curve of that upper lip he began reaching for on his own, more delicate and child-like than he’d ever been. And Sam was patient, pressing his forehead against the older man’s when things became too much.

Too intense. His breath was so shallow, and his skin was damp.

“I’m sorry,” Cas barely breathed, taking Sam’s face between his own hands. Feeling the coarseness of it scratch his palms. Letting his thumbs skim along those pale lips that parted further at the touch. He was so close he could feel his toes curling, arching himself to each movement, because Sam’s body was moving too. “Sam, I-”

“It’s okay,” he said, rushed and ragged. “Just let it go, Cas. Just let it go.”

The permission was all it took.

It was a sweet climax, long and pronounced and enough that he let his eyes drop for just a moment, mouth wide and gasping but no sound really coming out. And it was good, for all the times it had been explosive. Intense because he had been used to quick and impulsive.

Sam came shortly after, but his eyes didn’t close. Instead, his teeth nicked into that thick lower lip, brow furrowing against the older man’s. His eyes were hard and full, as if he wished to say everything all at once but not having the voice to do it till it all came out. That lip slipped from under his teeth once more.

“Sam,” Cas said, the name feeling strange on his tongue now, because it was a knowingness that consumed him. It was familiarity for what they both had shared. He felt the concern slipping through, because it was over, and the impulse wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t driven to be touched, and it made him want to run.

That was until Sam spoke. His lips had drawn up just a smidge, the warmth in his features seeming to brighten the edges around him. A soft effervescent blur. “It’s gonna hurt, but I can help you get through it.”

And maybe he wanted to believe in it after all.


	6. Find Your Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! It's been a rough month with finals and stuff and just, yeah. So sorry and I can guarantee faster updates now that its the Christmas break and I actually have time to write now.
> 
> Mostly just foundation stuff so you may have to bare with the blandness of this chapter? Also it starts the friendship between Cas and Jo which was of significant importance here so yeah, fun stuff
> 
> Thanks once again to my lovely beta miss Tsundwarf who kicked my butt to get this chapter done and I totally thank her for it
> 
> Here's the chapter!

Chapter 6: Find Your Arrow

_One week._

_Two weeks._

_Dean was nowhere to be found, and Castiel was no longer waiting for him to show._

\--

The storm came to it’s fruition around two in the morning, battering the little shack for all it’s worth. And though Cas had woken only a few times to the sound of thunder rupturing their quiet little haven, he knew it meant nothing good could come of it in the end. That whatever was happening outside was surely not going to be ignored when the sun came up.

That was, at least, nothing deemed morally good. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was that brought him into such a situation, entangled in sheets and foreign limbs so much longer and lankier than his own. It wasn’t as if he’d decided at some point that he wanted the feel of the other man curving into him, furnace hot and gloriously naked in the spread of scratchy blankets. Not in so few words, perhaps, but each time he’d woken, he’d slipped himself out from under those wiry arms and legs, putting up enough distance that he could fall back into his casual corpse position only to find himself right back where he started the next time he awoke.

It was uncomfortably obvious how even his subconscious state was fully aware of how much a moth he was to Sam’s flame. That even in the cold dark shroud of sleep did he find himself reaching out for the feel of something solid and real. Something that, in this case, pulled him in just as tightly and without the restlessness he’d depicted. After awhile, he simply accepted it, and with it came a more sound sleep.

The next time he awoke, it had been morning, and though the rain had stopped, the wind was still banging at the windows, a shrill sound seeming to emulate from the cracks in the floorboards and spaces in the door hinges. It was peaceful in a way, waking to feel the hot press of Sam’s nose bumping his chest, hands seemingly cradling it most tenderly, like he would a beloved object. His breathing seemed in tune with Sam’s, deep and sleep-filled still, but the thought was there. The synchronized way of which their heartbeats fell astride their bodies that so happened to be entangled hopelessly. Too much to be able to slip himself from the circle of Sam’s arms without waking the younger man, buoyed tightly around his waist, or how Sam’s knees were bent, the one looping up over his left one, keeping him securely pinned.

In his incapacitated state, Cas watched.

He watched Sam like he would a painting, or a sunrise. Or, really, anything that held any kind of meaning because the innocence of the sleeping face before him was one he wasn’t used to seeing. One he didn’t expect he would see now. Even naked, the cool jut of collar bone visible depicting a faded tattoo which he knew all too well, Sam had the look of a child.

He could smell rain, and sun, and sandalwood on Sam’s skin. It was luring him to sleep once more, promising good things if he did. If this was how he could sleep for the rest of his life, he wondered if he would ever choose to wake again.

“Don’t stop.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been stroking Sam’s hair mindlessly, nor did he notice that he’d stopped when the thought of permanence lingered on his mind for more than a seconds span of time. Nothing was permanent, and certainly expecting Sam to lay with him for the rest of eternity seemed a silly thought then.

The younger man’s eyes opened slowly, lips parting as they took in their first morning’s breath. A sweet drag of air that caused Cas to follow in the same manner, willing himself to pull back but not having the energy or the drive to do it. It was like breathing reality into a moment that had been so keenly poignant, and transcendent in the glow of some effervescent out-of-body experience, that the sound of the clock ticking became almost too lucid, and overwhelming. It was too soon. Too quick.

His body had craved this for as long as he knew how to crave affection, and it was going to be gone in seconds. A dream that left an imprint so large he wondered if there was even the remote possibility he could be as he was once. Devoid of need for warmth upon his skin in a way that didn’t mean seeking emotionless solidity.

Sam nuzzled in closer, lips parting against a patch of skin as if sensing the tension now viably making its way through Cas. As if trying to ease him back, to pull him down from wherever he was putting himself. And Castiel, who’d been ready to tuck himself back in his neat little shelf where he couldn’t be touched, softened to a puddle of confusion, and more need because there was that tenderness. That blissful shock of someone touching him. Making love to his skin in the briefest of contact.

“Good morning, New York,” he murmured, voice still raspy with sleep, but warm from the quick ministration and the curve of his lips as they pulled up just enough to show a calmness. A happiness now.

“Sam.” The name fell from his lips in a way he never should have let it. Like a mantra, a prayer. Like something sacred, because this was so new to him, and so unlike anything he’d ever let himself feel.

Waking up in someone’s arms. Letting a pair of lips take him apart.

Those lips were on him again, tongue laving across a small swatch of flesh, just enough that it sparked his nerves alight. Made him keenly aware that there was blood pumping through his veins, and all of it was heading where it shouldn’t. But God did it feel good, letting his fingers slide along Sam’s scalp, roots still a tad greasy from his being not showered. And Cas was letting it get the best of him. He was falling back into it because it felt good and real and that was all he could have ever wanted. All he wanted even now.

And then, all at once, he pushed back.

Castiel rolled over, untangling himself from the grip Sam had taken, back against the blankets now so his chest could heave with the exertion. And he was certain that that had been the hardest decision he’d ever let himself make, too late to erase what had already been done but enough to keep his integrity still somewhat intact. Ruling a night of abandonment due to his selfish loneliness was something he could do. Falling back into another blissed out moment couldn’t be explained by the same terms.

Sam, though, didn’t seem to understand this inner struggle. His brow merely creased, confusion written upon it in a way that made Cas almost feel regretful of what he’d done. Made him want to explain his actions but not really knowing how. After all, if he had, he wasn’t too sure his own moral obligation would be enough to keep him from slipping back into those strong arms.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, breathing deeply now. Taking in air like it could cure the thumping in his pounding chest. “I can’t.”

Sam’s brow softened then, fingers skimming along the distance between them till they landed on the jut of Castiel’s hipbone, soft and pleasant and assuming still. And Cas, who’d barely had the drive to push himself away, didn’t bother attempting to push them away now. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, willing himself to keep put. To not let himself give in, but he wanted to. Desperately.

“I made you a promise,” Sam said then, calm and composed. Two things Cas knew he couldn’t possibly depict at this point. “And I don’t intend to break it.”

A promise made in a blissed out moment. He couldn’t assume to even know what Sam had meant during such an intimate time because Sam couldn’t offer more than he had the ability to give, and Cas was quite certain whatever damage had been done had settled long enough that it would corrupt any chance of normalcy between them. Maybe enough that he’d screwed up his chances here before he could take root in them. That maybe it was better he went home, to his siblings and his office. To the things he already knew.

But he wanted to know why. He damn near needed to know.

“You don’t owe me anything, Sam,” he said, soft now because it was straining his voice to speak without wavering. “Though I appreciate what you’ve done for me, I can’t ask anything more from you. I’m not used to being the broken toy.”

Those fingers gripped tighter at these words, pressure that made Sam ultimately more real. There. A physical being in his peripheral vision instead of the ghost of a kiss looming over him, promising him things he didn’t deserve. “You’re not a toy.”

Wasn’t he though? His world was full of broken toys. What made him any different.

“I only ask that we let this go,” he said, letting Sam’s words roll off of him the best he could. “It was a mistake. You know this just as well as I do.”

Sam’s grip loosened which Cas had taken for resignation. That was, at least till he turned his head, because the face he was greeted with was the farthest thing from forbearing.

“It never goes away,” Sam said, thick with conviction. A reminder that years had gone by, and though time had slipped through his fingertips, Sam still had the burden upon his chest. A thing that colored him, and made him dark with it. “But you learn to live with it, one day at a time. I can’t offer you more than a diversion, but I want you to have that option. I want to be that option.”

A supplement. A bandage. The antibiotic to the scratch because the cut was still fresh and hadn’t scarred over. Sam was trying to protect him, but it sounded more like adding salt to the wound.

“I can’t,” he said again, stinging from it. Reeling from the sharpness of it because the admonition felt like salt instead. Like he were martyring himself. “Sam, I-I just-.”

“I’m here,” he said, soft, calm. “I’m gonna be here. You don’t have to choose this now, or ever, but I’m not going away. I’ll stay right here till you need me.”

Till Cas needed him. God, it wasn’t a matter of need, but desperate want. Sam had to know this. Had to know why this wasn’t a choice.

He could feel the words bubble up, but no more so than what could easily die on the edge of his lips. It wasn’t even really about explaining himself now, for actions were a lot more subsequent, and brought things up to a step no amount of words could topple him back from. It would be action that brought him back down if he were to ever find himself on the ground again.

“I appreciate your honorable intentions,” he said, this time with a true conviction that he hoped resonated the same way Sam’s words had. “But your concern is ill-founded. Help me let this go.”

It was enough. At least, enough that Sam rolled over on his back, staring up at the blank canvas of ceiling above him, faded tattoo in the forefront of streams of light that happened to be peeling through the shudders. And though the moment that briefest touch of fingertips against him had fallen slack upon the sheets should have brought a certain amount of relief, Cas felt the lack of them now, and it was a bitter taste.

For awhile, they laid still. It couldn’t have been more than a few short minutes because things needed to be done and no amount of feigned ignorance could change what had already occurred. It was just a matter of time before Cas would need to slip himself out from under the sheets, dress and ready himself for the day. But here he was, having received the one thing he’d always wanted, and only a seconds span of time was given to mourn it.

He was the first to stand though, sliding the sheets off and slowly igniting each sinew alight with movement. The cracking of his bones that felt ancient for their thirty-nine years. It was a nice tension, though. A calm strain that felt ever present even as he lifted his arms up over his head, letting the joints make audible sounds. When he stood, he was ready. He had left his discretions on the filthy sheets.

He searched the floor for his abandoned housecoat then, glad Sam had enough sense to bring their wet clothes out after their little bout the night prior, because the touch of clothing against his skin again would be a good feeling. Something of another reminder, because his nakedness felt raw almost. Made him feel vulnerable in the same way suits had made him feel powerful. A god among men. A feeling he almost considered encompassing again when he got home, just to sit in that poorly tailored suit for a night so he could pretend he held all the cards.

Sam, of course, seemed on a completely different level. Something that frightened Cas, though he’d never admit it. Sam didn’t need anything to know his own status.

“You’re, uh, you’re really something,” the young Winchester said, as if to make matters worse.

Cas turned, brow arched, curious as to the meaning but fearful of what it implied more so. “I suppose I am something, but not anything particularly special, Sam.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Cas picked up the housecoat off the floor, shaking it out once before slipping his arms into the plush of it. “It’s almost seven-thirty.”

When he turned around, he was greeted with that profile view, Sam back on his side, up on his elbow, sheets draping along his hips like some Greek Hellenistic statue brought to life. But what caught him off guard wasn’t that Sam had regained his prior position, but that his expression was warm. It didn’t reflect the mark of having been denied, not that Cas had rejected an advance or anything like that. Just, he expected there might be a distance there. An awkwardness that the scenario warranted.

Sam wasn’t closing him out. Hell, he was damn near beckoning him back in.

“I should shower,” he said, pushing himself up slowly, not bothering with the sheet as it crumpled up at his waist before being discarded when he stood, lithe and massive, and more a sculpture than he’d been laying still. His back was turned, body now facing the window, sun cutting across his jagged edges as if kissing the skin a lush russet. And there were tan lines too, bordering above the muscular ass, imperfect yet still intensely flawless, making it unbearably obvious how much Cas wanted to sink his teeth into the pink-white flesh. To leave a mark because Sam was stallion of sorts, and it certainly wasn’t okay that he could wear his skin like it were the thickest of clothes. Like his nakedness was merely a state of apparel and not of being.

A piece of land to lay claim too. To be owned. He wondered when he’d ever let himself think about a person that way before.

Sam pivoted, enough that he could look back, the smile still curling up along his features like it belonged there always. “You do realize it’s impolite to stare.”

Cas diverted his eyes, the hot flush something he was certain couldn’t be hidden. He was surprised his voice came out without wavering. “Your exhibitionism is hard to ignore.”

This was something Sam actually laughed outright towards.

As he crossed the room, legs long and slender and perfect, his eyes managed to keep themselves directed towards Cas nearly the entire way there, brow perked in a manner that was suggestive and obvious. A look that left the older man with a very dry throat and an earnest need to depart as quickly as humanly possible. He kept his stance still, though. Even chanced to look back up with a hardened purse to his lips, not giving anything away.

Sam grabbed a fresh towel off the coffee table, lingering there for just a moment, letting his fingers slide along the fabric with a determination that was hard to ignore. At least, hard for Cas to ignore. He was starting to feel that maybe it was his own mind slowing the pace, making it long and smooth. Dragging out each swollen second because it was a sight to behold and one he was certain he wouldn’t forget especially when he was alone again, curving against a pillow for solidarity.

These suspicions were shortly ended though when Sam decided to speak.

“You know, that showers pretty large,” he said, lilting against one leg, shamelessly exposing the full frontal now. “And I’m not one to waste water if it ain’t necessary.”

Cas’ eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side, nostrils flaring somewhat in his own confusion. The kind of look that brought an outright laugh, full-bellied and warm as the sound could be, from Sam, whose infectious smile became even more so. When he spoke, there was a bashfulness then that had taken Cas off guard for the simple fact that there was the honesty in it, as if letting Sam’s true nature through in just the briefest of glimpses.

“I was asking if you wanted to shower with me.”

It was an offer he hadn’t expected he’d receive after making such a proclamation only moments prior. Of getting past this, and letting it go. Cas couldn’t compartmentalize his thoughts like he used to, and they were all blurring about his vision making his head swim with the force of each new sensation. Each new anxiety.

“I much prefer showering on my own,” he stated, averting his eyes though this time in fear he would catch a glimpse of disappointment in that smooth brow. “I can go get our clothes from downstairs though, while you finish up that is.”

“Suit yourself,” the young Winchester replied, none to worse for wear. It was a relief to Cas. “Key’s on the coffee table.”

With that they parted, Sam into the bathroom which he left the door conveniently open, and Cas towards the hallway where he could slip on his soggy, though still usable, running shoes.

As soon as he’d exited the room, it became increasingly more obvious how much of a bad idea it had been to take on this task alone, not that he would have ever admit to it. Just, as he headed down the short hallway, key in hand, he wasn’t really quite sure where, or how, he was going to find what he needed. After all, it wasn’t as if knew where exactly the basement was, and heading into the bar dressed in a housecoat and sneakers alone seemed a far cry from the modesty he was willing to suppose upon. In this particular case, heading back without Sam’s clothes meant he was most likely going to get another show, this time dripping wet, which was just not something he was ready to face. His self control was running a fine enough line as it was.

So Castiel did the only thing he thought he could. Climbing up the small set of stairs, he cat crawled along the wall, peeking his head around the corner just to see if anyone was out there. Unsurprisingly, only three people seemed to be situated about the tables, cups of coffee and platters of southern breakfasts before them. Unlike in New York, none of them carried electronic devices, and one of them was wearing the same housecoat he was.

“I’m not really quite sure what you’re doing, but if you’re hungry you can go take a seat wherever.”

Cas turned around just in time to clip Jo’s shoulder as she leaned back from the near position she’d taken behind him, words blown against his ear in a way that made the red flush erupt along his neck. He wasn’t sure when she’d managed to get so up and personal, but the expression she bore was definitely amused, and held none of the same concern for having nearly been knocked down the stairs during Cas’ quick reaction.

“Miss Harvelle,” he said, worry furrowing his brow enough that it cooled the flame in his cheeks, hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder in an attempt at steadying her. She simply laughed, shaking her head.

“It’s Jo,” she replied, swatting his hand off in that same playful manner. “And don’t look so concerned. I probably deserved that.”

He still wasn’t all that convinced, watching as she righted out her plaid button-down, then the blond waves which she dragged over her left shoulder, easily the most recognizable feature about her. It seemed, even then, that the similarities between her actions and that of the leather clad mechanic’s were almost to severe. Too sharp. Yes, if Cas could put his opinion of Jo in words, it would have been that she reminded him of Dean, even more so than Sam had.

And he wasn’t sure if this was such a good thing.

After another silent moment, Jo shifted against her one heel, clearly making it known that whatever silence he’d chosen to let befall them was an uncomfortable one. He quickly blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Uh, clothes. I was looking for our clothes.”

She responded quickly, smile curling across her lips once more. “I was wondering when you were gonna come looking for those.”

Jo showed him the path into the basement, letting him trail behind her has she curved past shelves full of all sorts of whiskey bottles and alcoholic beverages kept in storage, and the massive door that lead into the fridge where the food and beer were mostly likely kept in stock. It wasn’t until they were quite deep into the dank basement that they found the washing machine, the wicker basket now filled with dry clothing which she gestured towards noncommittally.

“Let me know if you’re missing anythin’,” she said, hand now on her hip. “Damn dryer seems to devour left socks.”

He grabbed the basket, mumbling his thanks before hefting it up. She watched him do it, brow perked, clearly amused by something or other but not really making much of a fuss about it. It wasn’t until they were coming back up towards the stairs that she started talking again, this time with a questioning tone.

“So, did you make a move?”

At first, he wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant. Turning his eyes towards her momentarily, he let the words register one by one, not quite aware exactly what it was she was trying to ascertain. About Dean, maybe. Why they’d gotten together, or how. He was about to respond in the affirmative when the secondary thought passed him by. One that had made him suddenly increasingly more uncomfortable with the suggestion it held.

“Are you referring to Sam Winchester?” he asked, stalling on the third step. She stopped too, turning around so she could look at him, expression not bothering to hold anything back.

“It’s okay,” she said, softer now as if taking a step back. As if trying not to offend him. “We’ve all been there. Some Freudian nonsense, I’ve heard.”

He wasn’t the first.

It took him a moment to let her words sink in. A moment longer to accept them as unbridled truth. Jo had been one of the few, he assumed, Dean had left behind. And like himself, she didn’t seem to hold onto any grudge. Just, how many people had Dean left behind, and how many people had Sam offered the same emotional bandage to? The thought overwhelmed him and made him feel suddenly, intensely betrayed.

Because maybe he wanted Sam to be genuine, but it’d also made him aware that maybe he wanted Sam to want him for all the times Dean hadn’t.

“I wasn’t aware this was something of a pandemic,” Cas said, letting his fingers clench and unclench against the rim of the basket. It kept him grounded, his voice still though distinctly morose.

Jo leant against the railing, staring at her feet for a brief moment before turning her eyes back towards him. “Sam’s a good guy, Cas, so don’t take it personally. He’s just not really capable of absorbing, you know?”

Absorbing. Dean had said something similar, those months back. That Sam was incapable of accepting, and letting things in. Why it seemed particularly poignant then was something he was having difficulties understanding, but the message itself rang true enough.

Even still, it was hard trying to hide the new harbored feelings coursing through him, discoloring everything he’d felt the night prior. The idea of Sam offering his body to others. His ‘temporary bandage’ to whomever walked through those doors. How many people had Sam slept with in the name of doing something good for someone else?

“You certainly like to defend the Winchesters,” he said then, calm and succinct. “I wasn’t aware that extorting someone’s emotions for sex was termed under the ‘good guy’ status.”

All at once the atmosphere shifted, and not in the direction Cas had thought it was going to take. Instead of getting angry, or defensive, Jo pushed herself up, brows raised in some kind of mute surprise. The kind of reaction that made Cas’ brow furrow ever further, lips pulling down at the corners as he watched her switch from one self to the next. When she spoke, she sounded exasperated.

“You slept with Sam last night?”

“Is this not what we’ve been discussing?” he asked in response, feeling just as exasperated. Maybe a little more so. “I’m sorry but I’m not really understanding the implications-.”

Jo actually laughed then, maybe from disbelief, or maybe for lack of a better reaction. She reached out, grabbed Cas’ shoulder with that same look of bewilderment but a newfound belief in what had been said. It was in this moment that the implication was no longer necessary. He knew.

She stood back, letting her arms cross over her chest, shaking her head. “No, Cas. Sam doesn’t fuck around with Dean’s leftovers. At least, till now that is.”

\--

It took all of fifteen minutes for Jo to explain her story, going into detail on how Dean had made the first move with her, and how she hadn’t reciprocated until he was no longer bothering to try. Said it was something about his indifference that took her by surprise. The way he picked himself up and moved on, and how he could leave for New York on the drop of a dime without so much as a goodbye.

Things never happened between them. Nor had anything occurred between her and Sam after some lengthy bit of trying. When she was angry, bitter, and maybe a little disheartened by the fact that she’d never attempted anything during the time he’d wanted her. Just that, Dean had spent so much time trying to fix Sam that when he left, it was on a failures tide. He hadn’t succeeded, and Jo certainly hadn’t succeeded in replacing Dean out of her life with the person who made him leave.

She resented the Winchesters for a while. Said she felt they sucked people in just to use them up, and for the most part Cas couldn’t argue with it. Just, after all the time she’d spent with Sam working and watching him slowly crack the casing around his heart, she stopped believing that that was their only truth.

“I’d willingly let myself get caught up in their pain,” she said, shifting from the spot on the stairs she’d taken during their conversation. Cas was sitting on the bottom step, balancing the wicker basket next to him. “I thought I could help them. Give Dean a reason to stay, or Sam a reason to fight. It was never about what I could do for those boys, though, but what they needed to do for each other. And they keep getting that wrong.”

“So they need each other, then.”

“More than anything,” she confirmed, but her eyes seemed to suggest something else. Something more concerning. “At least, as much as I’ve always assumed. I’m just not quite sure about how you fit into that scheme, though I do know one thing for certain.”

Castiel’s brow perked expectantly, lips drawing in. “And what would that be?”

“You’re needed too.”

He let these words sink in, nearly choking on them as they threatened to spill from his own lips. He was _needed_. Other than his business practice, Cas had never been needed for more than anything but a bookkeeper and a financial advisor. It was never personal. It was never more than a thought.

“I’m afraid,” he said, fingers picking at the wicker basket with no real purpose. “of being needed. It is not something I feel I would excel at.”

“Here’s a little secret.”

Cas turned his eyes towards Jo, who smiled at him with a knowing understanding. “And what is that?”

“No one is good at being needed. But when you’re not, you sure as hell want to be.”

Cas couldn’t help but agree, because it stung when the words were out, more than he would ever had admitted them to. “You want to be needed?”

She smiled. “Yeah, course I do. And I am, in some ways-”

Before he could stop himself, the words bubbled up than over, threatening to expose him for everything he was. “What’s it like?”

Jo’s brow perked up, lips pulling at the corners as she leant her elbows down against her splayed knees. Masculine, some would think. Cas liked the way she moved, flippant and with purpose. So much like Dean. “You really are an odd one, Cas.”

He blanched, returning his eyes to basket. “I’ve heard.”

After another moment, she spoke. “It’s bittersweet, but its all you could ever want.”

And it was all he had ever wanted, till then.  
\--

The rest of the morning went by in a blur. Maybe because the weight of Jo’s words had left him heavy, and burdened. More so than he’d been when he’d pushed Sam’s advances and moved back into his own skin for a time. Yes, it seemed all too possible that the Winchester’s would use him up too, if he let them. Take him for whatever he had left to give.

But why Jo had made note of his necessity was something he couldn’t shake. Something he was still having difficulties assessing even now. It added another layer of guilt. Another waning facet to why he was pushing away from what had felt so undeniably good when all he wanted was to feel nothing at all. Like he’d felt in New York before ever entangling himself with the Winchesters. It was an existence he knew how to keep.

And if he expected Sam to address the circumstances in hopes of hashing it out, he was sorely mistaken.

The younger Winchester didn’t mention anything that had occurred when Castiel returned, only groaning in relief because he’d been sitting in a towel for the better portion of a good ten minutes, clearly not concerned with why it’d taken the older man so long. He went for the basket, shuffling through for his own clothing, making note only once of the fact that he was pretty sure Cas had booked it or something.

Castiel could only smile at this, pivoting himself around the expanse of Sam’s shoulder so he could head towards the shower himself. Being clean was something he desperately wanted then. A hot shower to melt away the confusion and concern.

Afterwards, and for what seemed to end far too quickly, they headed downstairs. It was a relatively quiet affair on the older man’s part, eating breakfast with Ellen and Jo. The former seemed to want to distance Cas from conversation as much as possible whilst the other watched his reactions with almost too much interest, like she were waiting for the two to make-out at any second.

To the latter’s disappointment, Cas remained silent. There wasn’t much to say, at least on his part. He had no real connection to ‘Roadhouse’, as the bar was aptly named, and he certainly wasn’t going to start talking about himself without occasion to do so. Even if there had been, he really couldn’t make guarantees he would have jumped on the offer.

But Sam, well, Sam had the appearance of a ray of sun just filtering its way through. Catching on every surface, because it seemed almost imperatively simple that Sam had a beacon quality to his skin. His way of being everything all at once. It was enough to just watch him in a way Castiel had never chanced to watch him before. Not that he hadn’t had a habit of watching Sam Winchester. Just that, in the short time he’d known him, this had been the first time he’d ever seen him glow.

And if anyone seemed to notice the difference, it was Ellen.

“I mean, it’s not like we couldn’t afford another full timer, and Amelia had been prying for _months_ -.”

“You’re awfully chatty this mornin’,” Ellen said, cutting him off dead sentence. Sam, who’d been pouring over the details rather earnestly of Castiel’s appearance and the state of the Kennel’s affairs, stilled. He appeared mildly embarrassed then. “What’s got you all riled up?”

“Storms over,” he replied, turning his eyes briefly towards Cas then back down at his hands which had been perched precariously against the edge of the table. He clenched and unclenched his fingers momentarily before continuing, small smile pulling at the edges of his lips where the large, dimpled one had been only seconds prior. “I always hated thunder.”

After breakfast, and with a hesitance that was difficult to surpass, Sam finally steered into the necessary departure. He hugged Ellen, then Jo, and lingered in each grasp because this was what it must have been like to be a family. Cas couldn’t help but watch, wondering how it was that anyone ever came to be so unconditional. How he ever managed to build his walls so high that not even his siblings could touch him with any real vigor, or purpose.

Ellen, after a moment’s approbation, shook his hand. It was brief, and cold, but it was something, and Cas appreciated it more than he had her intervention the night prior. When Jo hugged him, it was warm and surprising. The kind of action that took both Ellen and Sam by a certain amount of surprise, but more so incredulity. When she pulled back, she slipped something in the clench of his fingers, artfully masked in a final handshake.

Her words lingered though, soft against his ear. Words he almost hadn’t heard in the quick motion. Words that, he assumed, should have colored him with some sense of accomplishment, had it not been for the conversation earlier that morning. He knew the connotation, but it still made him flush with curiosity.

“Call me,” she’d said.

They left shortly after that, heading home to whatever damage awaited him there. Sam only chanced to look at him once during that time, and he could feel it bristling on his skin like some foreign touch.

A dangerous feeling. He was far too aware of Sam.

\--

“You’re not staying here.”

 _As if things couldn’t gotten any worse._ Castiel stared blatantly at the wreckage of the plantation house, or, at least, the _new_ damage that threatened to knock his own feet from under him. Something of a disturbing sight now that the porch had finally diminished, creating a mass cavern behind the front pillars. But this did not come close to the destruction from a tree that only yesterday had been standing quite tall and proud which now appeared to be embedded within the left flank of the structure, caving the wall in near completely.

The house sagged under it’s own immense weight, crippling under the rotting stanchions. It was as if the entirety of it let out one large breath.

“She’s certainly worse for wear, but nothing I cannot handle, Sam Winchester.”

It was a sound of disbelief he was greeted with. A scoff of sorts.

“This is more than just a duct tape and zip tie job, Cas,” he said, gesturing towards the building. Sam had exited the truck the moment they’d arrived, much to Cas’ surprise at the time, and now appeared more riled up than ever, hands on his thin hips and foot tapping restlessly against gravel. “It’s a fucking health hazard in there.”

Cas stared at it with certain longing, a small sigh escaping past his lips. Sam was right. It wasn’t a matter of an easy fix and it certainly wasn’t a stable living environment even prior to the impairment. The plantation was coming down on itself, and one more storm would be enough to knock it flat out. He felt suddenly intensely sad.

“Until the plantation is suitable, it appears I’ll be in need of a new residence,” he said, only then turning to meet those expectant sunflower eyes and perked brows showing obvious distress. “Is there a motel of some sort near by?”

“I’m not making you stay in a motel,” Sam replied. “I have a spare room. It’s yours till we can get this thing standing on its own two feet again.”

Cas blanched. Turning his eyes towards his feet, then the sky, then back over towards the caving plantation, he knotted his fingers behind his back and began to rock on the balls of his feet in a way that depicted his disquiet. He tried to determine the new emotion flooding through him now. Apprehension, maybe? Restlessness quaked through him like a drug. “I don’t know if that would be the wisest of decisions.”

“It’s not a suggestion. The closest motel is in Fairhope and its expensive.”

Expense. Cas wished he could explain that money was not a hindrance, but the thought was still there. The underlying factor that no matter how much he worked, or how well he counted his pennies, the gaps in his savings would grow. Money always had a tendency of running out, and quickly.

And Sam, well. Sam was giving him an option. Or, in the case of what the younger man implied, he was giving Cas a solution.

“I get it,” he continued, lolling back a step. “This is kind of, uncomfortable. But you’ve shown you’re good with the dogs on multiple occasions already and I really don’t wanna lose a trainer. So just, just take the room, Cas.”

A calm desperation. It was so muted he almost hadn’t realized it was there. Cas stared at him for a brief moment, watching as Sam’s chest rose and fell, a little more implied than his calmer, deeper habits. After a moment’s hesitation, he licked his chapped lips and sighed.

“I pay my portion of the utilities,” he said, which was confirmation enough to light up that glow again behind the younger man’s cheeks. “And I want a cut of the chores. I won’t be a fixture in your household.”

“Nor what I expect you to be one,” Sam said, smiling then. His eyes turned towards the plantation, then the ground as well. Cas couldn’t help but feel the warmth brewing in his stomach from the genuine bashfulness the younger man depicted. “Let me help you get your stuff together then.”

Cas followed behind Sam, watching the surefootedness of the younger man as he went. He couldn’t help but linger on the curve of each calve through denim, drawing back on the way they’d felt hooked between his own. Two shapes that fit poorly and yet perfectly all at once. It was only a matter of time, he thought. Things weren’t going to end well here, of that he was quite certain.

Whatever they’d started had to be snuffed out, because wherever it was going had the ground shake with a knowing absolution.

And Cas was not ready to fall yet.

\--


	7. Simple As This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks have passed and things intentions become clear.

**Chapter 7:** Simple As This

__

_He wasn’t sure if the phone was ringing. Something about the hazy half-sleep he found himself balanced in made him feel as if every outside noise was a dream. That every interruption was the cold, dark stretch of a nightmare willing to set in and that his consciousness wasn’t ready to submit to it. That answering that phone would lead him into the dark, restlessness of whatever dream called him under._

_He wasn’t sure the phone was ringing and yet he reached for it anyways._

_“Castiel Novak speaking,” he said, receiver pressed precariously against the side of his face not currently resting against a particularly stiff pillow. It was three in the morning when his eyes cleared enough that he could read it on the blurry, digital clock. No one ever called him past ten. “This better be good.”_

_“Uh-um hey,” the familiar voice sounded. If he thought he were dreaming, this made him consider if he were even alive. “It’s uh, it’s Dean Winchester. From the other night-.”_

_“You mean three weeks ago?” he asked, throat scratchy and wretched. “If I recall correctly.”_

_“Y-yeah man. Sorry about not calling or whatever. Been busy with work and that whole budget thing, I mean.”_

_“And you’re calling at three in the morning because?”_

_There was an awkward silence on the other line, tense and confused like the question had wounded the other man into questioning his very reasons for calling. The thought was one Cas found a little too much enjoyment from._

_“I-I’m sorry man. Really. I just-, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”_

_“About the casual sex.”_

_He cleared his throat, clearly trying to regain his composure. “I- well, yeah. I mean, I was pretty quick to dismiss it and I ain’t the type to stare a gift horse in the mouth if you know what I mean. Can I come pick you up? We could talk or something.”_

_“Or something,” he mused, pushing himself up slowly._

_“Just say yes,” Dean said, showing a bit of that confidence he wore so well usually. “You wouldn’t be talking to me now if you didn’t want to.”_

_Cas smiled, shaking his head before letting out a puff of laughter. He was about to embark on something truly terrible, and maybe that level of destruction was something he wanted more than he was willing to admit. “If you insist, Dean Winchester.”_

_“Good, cause I’m outside now.”_

_“Always the optimist, aren’t we.”_  
  
\--

As it turned out, things were far different than anything Castiel assumed they could have been. Something about the way things settled, stilled as if the ripples in that overfilled glass that was, well, whatever it was between them, had decided not to push the contents over the edge. That things could be still at all. It was the first time since he’d got there – hell, the first time since he’d met Dean, that things managed to feel under his control again even just a little bit. 

And everyday was a chapter read. A page written. It was the small obstacles conquered that made it somehow worth it. 

He’d moved into the spare bedroom in the kennel loft – once dominated by dust and old dog toys – where his few items felt somehow more than they’d felt in the immense space of the old plantation. Something about the space, he assumed. The way that he could make himself so big in such a small room when once lost in the valleys of dirty mahogany floors and dusty, cracked windows. Though he wouldn’t be the first to admit it, it made him content. 

It also didn’t hurt that his sheets never stopped smelling like Sam. 

Things settled. Quickly, if he were being honest with himself. It didn’t take long for a rhythm to form, Sam’s gentle nature being that which beckoned Cas into the very facets of his daily life. They moved about each other delicately, breaching only which topics felt the least intrusive, and always with a certain amount of consideration for the other’s needs. Simply put, Cas worried he’d overstepped his boundaries, and Sam wasn’t about to overstep his own in pursuance of that. 

But it was good. Peaceful. It was something that could be understood, compartmentalized, and stored accordingly. It was a situation Castiel could grasp. 

Certain things were new even still. Certain things that came with spending nearly all your time with that of another person you’d once known intimately. The constant time spent together was one. It wasn’t just work and the odd meal anymore, but early mornings and late evenings. It was sweatpants and bedhead – Sam’s similarly shaped like that of a birds nest – popcorn and movies. It was leisure mixed with work mixed with whatever it was floating between them and for that it was all consuming. Cas wasn’t sure he disliked that thought as much as he probably should have. 

In any which case, the two settled into a routine that seemed to fit both natures exceedingly well. For that, it was bearable. 

But just so. There was still that knowledge. That knowingness like something was always about to happen. That one minute he could be in the kitchen, sipping coffee and the next he could be swept up off his feet, carted to the nearest bedroom for a good, pent-up, romping. It wasn’t that this was the kind of thing that happened or that even had the remote possibility of happening, but the feeling never went away, and because of that he was constantly, achingly, desperately aware of Sam. 

And that was a very big problem. 

“That can’t be the best you got,” Sam said early that morning, keeping a strong, sure-footed pace. By early, Cas really should have said obscenely so, or still night if he were feeling particularly grumpy. The sun hadn’t peaked up over that horizon line yet, and the sky was a brilliant shade of indigo-scarlet. “You got this, New York. Keep it up!”

Castiel jogged harder, faster. His muscles felt like paste and his skin was drenched with thick rivulets of sweat. He mustered a strong enough pace to keep up, but his lead feet were a challenge all on their own. Another just so happened to be the three dogs keeping to his sides, leashes tethered around his bare waist in a great knot of sorts. 

He wasn’t sure when he’d got wrangled into early morning jogs. Probably the same reason he agreed to the b-rated movie marathons, or the impromptu trips into Fairhope for ice cream. Sam had a sweet tooth which he rarely indulged. Though, the more time they’d spent together, the worse it seemed to get. 

In any which case, Cas was running, and not in the proverbial sense he’d come to know far too well as of recently. He was physically running, and the thought was just about as exhausting as the action had been. 

“You’re inexhaustible,” Castiel panted, watching the beast of a man keep those long legs moving, not appearing to struggle with the distance or the terrain. His posture was perfect, back a flawless arch, arms barely swaying at his sides in proper running positions. Not like Cas’, which swung wickedly and with reckless abandon. Sam was ten feet ahead and yet it felt like a mile. 

“You and I both know that ain’t true,” Sam called back, before giving a quick laugh, betraying just a little bit of strain. Hardly anything. 

But his words made Cas blanch. 

This wasn’t the first time Sam had alluded to their previous ministrations. It was never not subtle and joking, but the connotations were always somehow there. Always riding the back of a breath, refusing to be put to rest. Keeping that tension viable. Cas wasn’t sure if this was something Sam even realized he was doing, but he did so with very little encouragement, and always unprovoked. 

And it felt purposeful. It always felt purposeful. 

“Well I certainly am,” he said, trying not to think about the small of Sam’s back then. The way his ass looked in those sweatpants, or the sweat along the nape of his neck, hair tied back in that ghost of a ponytail. If he weren’t so tired, he probably would have had a little problem on his hands. “I’m not an agile runner by any means.”

“You’ll get there. I’ll make sure of it.”

\--

If there was anything Cas had come to know and realize in the few weeks of living with Sam, it’d been that the younger of the two loved his showers, and took them at great length. It explained why Sam had still been barely clothed that first day. It also made it increasingly more frustrating when Cas had to wait the half hour to forty-five minutes it usually took before Sam decided he was clean enough. 

It quickly became some sort of race. Who could get up the stairs fast enough after their jogs, or who could get the dogs unhooked and caged before the other. Cas generally always lost, thanks to not only Sam’s speed, but his height and weight as well. It was never fun struggling against those strong, offending shoulders when climbing narrow, steep stairs. Just, on those rare occasions he had somehow managed to win said race he took his showers mechanically and peacefully. 

Today was not going to be one of those days. He knew it the moment they curved into the gravel parking lot, his legs like jelly and his lungs barely chancing a solid, full breath before screaming for another. Getting up those stairs would have been laborious enough without the pushing and shoving so, with a defeated sigh, he slowed his pace and gestured towards the backdoors. 

“Take the first shower,” he said. “I’ll take care of the dogs.”

Sam smiled wide, nodding his head once before untying the dogs with quick, deft fingers. He handed the leashes to Castiel then took off quick as if he hadn’t just jogged three miles. The bastard. 

And it didn’t take long to get the dogs back in their cages either. At least, not as much time as it initially had the first week. He was getting used to being around dogs constantly to the point where it felt odd not hearing the sound of barking in the far off distance. The feel of fur scratching against his jeans. It was soothing in a way. Comforting in another. 

It was no wonder Sam decided this was something he needed. Why he chose this of all things. 

What he found most interesting of all though, happened to come from Riot who, in those few short weeks, had come to not only trust him but took an inexplicable liking too him as well. At first it was in the littlest ways. Tagging by him as he cleaned the dog shit out of the back lots, or curling up next to him on the coach when they’d watch movies. After a certain point, he began lagging along through every abysmal task: sitting at the door while Cas showered or keeping to the older man’s side whilst he attempted to train Mister Rogers. 

The newfound partnership was not only one that shocked Cas, but also Sam. Something that, though both parties were aware of, neither brought the topic up till a few nights prior when Riot decided his sleeping arrangements were better suited at the end of Cas’ single than the younger Winchester’s double. The next while was mostly filled with the off complaint and a couple ‘turn-coat’ comments muttered from Sam without any real strength of conviction. Even that was mild and unoffending. 

Nothing was ever forced. Cas wondered if this was something Sam did for his benefit, or if Sam had learned to keep a close eye on all exits a long time ago. 

The next span of time felt something like a blur. Maybe due to the fact that his body felt like jelly, gooey and moldable. He was tired, and not just cause he’d run three miles on six hours of sleep but because it was a string of six hour nights followed by three mile runs. Afternoons of chasing dogs, scrubbing floors, scooping shit, mowing grass. Weekends hauling stanchions in place, propping up a severely sagging foundation in ninety degree weather. He liked being busy but wasn’t physically ready for what had come of it all. 

Even still, nearly three weeks had passed and the calluses on his palms were getting thicker. His skin was no longer pale but a deep nut brown; his chestnut hair was lighter from the sun bleaching the pigment out. He was getting stronger. Just not strong enough. Not nearly strong enough. 

So today he was tired, and because of it he found himself floating through the motions. Slipping up the stairs one by one, fingers dragging along the hand rail, Riot keeping at his heels always so patiently. He flipped the switch on the coffee pot when he got to it, and snagged the morning paper cause he wouldn’t see much of it when Sam came out of the bathroom, all lean and smooth and wet. 

If he were being honest with himself, it was one of the highlights of his ridiculous but fulfilling days. 

Today was different though. Something in the air, maybe, like the cloud of mist had already pushed it’s way past the cracks in the bathroom door. It clung heavy, and Cas – who’d generally tended to take a seat during those long waits – found himself bypassing the armchair completely, feet finding the familiar path towards the hallway. 

The fog was not merely metaphorical now. Not with the billows of steam pushing through the adjacent door, wide open as it’d never been before. There was a sickly thrill in it. Something about the fact that, for whatever reason, Sam had missed a step in his daily routine, leaving an opening where Cas could slip in further. Deeper. If he were a braver, stupider man, he might have walked right in and stripped his clothes off. Stepped into the warmth of that shower and spent the morning doing all the things he found his mind had a way of simulating at the absolute worst times. 

And he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a purpose to it. A question mark lingering in the way the door hung open, ignored but hard to forget. All Sam would’ve had to do was turn his eyes to know just how exposed he’d left it, and himself. 

It was on this thought Cas began to turn, the living room seeming like a lot less confusing a setting then the one he found himself in. It was indecent and improper and, as much as he wanted to see he knew it was better for the both of them if he didn’t. It wasn’t worth the risk and it certainly wasn’t worth the confusion or frustration it would bring. 

He liked Sam. He realized this a little bit more every day he was near. And that was half the problem. 

The last thing he heard was a soft groan. The kind that plagued his tired limbs, made his skin tingle with the connotation. He stilled for a seconds span of time, as if he’d been shot, registering the sound with an acute accuracy. His mind took what liberties it could, but the truth was far more indulgent and he wasn’t ready to face it. 

He knew the sound. He’d heard it before. He walked into the living room even still. 

\--

“So you just sort of, er, listened?” Jo asked, voice betraying her obvious concern. “I mean, you have to know that’s a little fucked up.”

“I’m fully aware,” Cas said before lying back with a heavy thump against the hard twin bed. His free hand was currently occupied with pinching the bridge of his nose. “And I walked away. But I’ve let him get to me. I don’t know how that happened but I did.”

The movie had to be halfway over by then. He could only assume this because he hadn’t been watching it. He could only assume since he’d escaped into his bedroom faking a stomach complaint after dinner, cellphone pressed against his cheek, watching the sky through his window turn from a sharp, sunset orange into a deep, indigo twilight.  
Jo was talking. Jo was telling him something important. He needed to concentrate.

“… I mean there are things we could probably take from this,” she said, voice less guarded and more up to speed, as if the prior statement was rendered void. “Some real strong implications here, friend.”

“And what would they be?”

“Well, for one, he thinks about you when he jacks off.”

“That was not the point of this conversation, Miss Harvelle, I-.”

“Wow, lighten up a little, Cas. It was just a joke,” she said, staunching her amusement somewhat for, Cas could only assume, his own benefit. Jo had been a surprising pillar in his life during those first few weeks. Strong as she had a way of being, but kind in the way she always seemed to understand even when it wasn’t outright. “You just need to figure out what you want, and if it’s some creepy, peeping tom kink that, you know, both participants are consenting to, then that’s totally your business. Just, you know, get your rocks off on something legal maybe?”

He let his grimace set in once more, fingers flexing over the smooth lozenge that was his Blackberry. His stomach was churning. “At least for the present I’ll continue avoiding him.”

“Right, because dodging your problems automatically solves them be default.” The sarcasm damn near dripped from her voice. “You’re better than that. Stop being a baby and talk to him.”

He frowned, lips pulled down at the corners as he searched about the room for answers he wouldn’t find. Proof of what he’d felt so he couldn’t coincide with her understanding of it. “I think I made a mistake coming here, Jo.”

The silence on the other side of the phone was confirmation enough that what he’d said wasn’t a good thing. Maybe the worst possible thing he could’ve, but what came next was surprisingly simple. 

“You’re letting yourself suffocate, Cas,” she said, voice clear with obvious frustration. “I don’t know how well martyring worked out for you back in New York, but pretending like you can run from your problems is not going to fix them.”

“I can’t fix them,” he said. “There is nothing to fix.”

“With that kind of attitude, sure.”

Cas’ fingers found there way back up to the bridge of his nose once more, letting his eyelids drop for just a second. The truth was he didn’t particularly want to tell Sam. Not about Dean. Not about how he’d let the one thing he wanted slip through his fingers. How he’d ruined everything when he pressed his lips against the younger Winchester’s in some feeble attempt at solidarity only to have these choices further solidified by his own regret and shame. His own remorse for the spiral he seemed to be stuck in.

He liked Sam. He liked the way Sam looked at him with a softness edging the creases in his warm eyes. He liked the fact that Sam never seemed to know how the kindness in him translated into every fiber of his daily life, whether it’d been the way he took care of the dogs, the relationships he had with the ones who loved him, or even the delicate way which he made love like every motion meant something.

Like making love was art. Was comfort.

He thought about Sam’s hands on him. Sam’s lips on him, so patient and threatening to pull him apart. He liked the thought more than he should have.

He wanted Sam to touch him again and again and again.

“Figure yourself out, Cas,” Jo said. “Because Sam chose to give into you for a reason, and you really don’t seem to understand what you’re about to miss out on.”

“I’d ruin him.”

“Stop being melodramatic. He’ll give you exactly what you need.”

Cas stared at the window, watching the lights go out. Jo was wrong. He couldn’t take intimacy he didn’t deserve. Affection was borne from love, and Cas wasn’t sure if he knew how to love anyone without hurting them. 

“I don’t think you understand-.”

“Oh no, I do. And trust me, that boy hasn’t looked at someone the way he looks at you in a long time. Hell, he hasn’t looked at anyone like that since Jess, and that’s saying something. You back out now and it ain’t just your feelings on the line.”

Cas stared at his shoes, computing and compartmentalizing. When he spoke, the low gravel of his voice felt thicker, more detached. “I really hope you’re wrong.”

“Lighten up, grumpy. Sounds like someone really needs to get laid.”

\--

Lightening up was a much harder task than simply avoiding. In this particular case, Cas wasn’t even sure he was all that capable of doing anything other than avoiding. Or, rather, deflecting. When nearly every moment was spent with the person you wanted to avoid, sometimes it was far easier to make the tasks the most important thing, so he leveled all his energies on work. 

The rest of the time was spent in trying to find alternative outs. Reading copious amounts of books, for one, which gave him an excuse to spend a better portion of his free time in his room. He liked Sam’s collection. Liked how each book was so tattered and worn and yet each had the Winchester’s name printed on the inside of their covers. Each had a place among the many bookshelves scattered about the loft. 

The books were a consolation. They helped him in his escapist attempts.

Which was why, when Sam asked him if he wanted to go into Mobile with him that Saturday afternoon, he politely declined, faking yet another stomach complaint. He knew it wasn’t the kind of thing he should have felt proud of by any means, but the regret had been instantaneous and all consuming. Like all things pertaining to Sam, he felt out of his depth. 

And Sam, with that inquisitive brow and uncanny ability to spot the weak spots in pretty well anything, said nothing. He just shrugged his shoulders, packed a quick lunch, and went on his way without so much as a second word. It was in this way Cas wondered if he even had the capability of separating them enough that contentment could be found again. 

There was also the added plus of having the loft to himself for the first time. It felt larger and somehow more empty than ever without the boisterous, booming nature of Sam Winchester gracing it’s hallways, and yet the connotation of being blissfully alone was something he couldn’t resist. Something that spoke to him in such a calming, necessary way. 

And he started cleaning. 

He wasn’t sure why this was something he needed to do. Something metaphorical, he assumed. Removing the dirt and clutter from his own life to try and bring clarity and order back into it. It wasn’t that the loft was dirty by any means. Just that dust was starting to collect along certain surfaces, morning papers piled up on the coffee table, last nights dishes still wallowing in the sink. He wanted to wash his sheets, wash his clothes, wash the floors. He felt the familiarity of Comet, Pinesol, Mr. Clean. 

He wanted control again. So he took control. 

And it was good. Hell, it was fucking fantastic. He made his way through the kitchen and living room with rags tossed over his shoulders and Swiffer dusters in his hands, making short work of a job that could have taken him far longer to do than it did. 

Once he’d finished scrubbing everything down, he hand washed his sheets before hanging them to dry. Something that, though he’d washed his sheets sporadically throughout the sparse weeks, he hadn’t had the chance of watching them float listlessly through the sweet summer air. Like a movie, he thought. Like watching something that couldn’t possibly be real. 

“Can’t do this in the city,” he said, turning his eyes towards Riot who’d been lounging on the back porch. Or, something like a porch seeing as it wasn’t quite finished yet, decked out with two secondhand lawn chairs and a rusted charcoal barbeque. “For being busy constantly, there really isn’t much you can do in the city.”

After he’d finished his own laundry he grabbed an empty hamper and headed himself into Sam’s room. 

It wasn’t a matter that Castiel wanted to snoop. Or, at least, wasn’t willing to admit that that might have been his intentions. After all, it’d never been stated explicitly he wasn’t allowed to go in said room without permission so chancing to wash a few of the almost entirely forgotten articles of clothing Sam never seemed to have time or energy to wash wasn’t really something he thought would get him in any real trouble. And maybe he was willing to justify his actions through simply meaning to do well. Something that might have been considered a nicety in any platonic relationship.

So yeah, maybe he was a little curious of what hidden treasures Sam’s room contained. But the least he could do was wash a few articles of clothing to compensate for it. 

It took mere minutes to fill the basket, but the very mystery of the room rapt him up for the better portion of a half hour, pulling at drawers, digging through the closet, riffling through papers. At first it was innocent, picking up the picture frames off the bedside table or running his fingers along the edge of the small desk, but it was far too much a temptation. Once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. 

Until he found something. 

Everything in him screamed to stop the moment his fingers slid across the cardboard box, so high up in the closet he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach. But he didn’t. As he slipped it from its perch, he could feel the well-worn lid slide between his fingers, making sure to tighten his grasp a little bit more. It had a significant amount of weight to it, though there was no dust to speak of which meant it was opened and closed quite frequently. 

He put the box down on the end of Sam’s bed before sitting, his fingers trailing along the edge as if willing it open with his mind but not physically doing so as if some invisible seal was keeping him physically at bay. Something inside told him it was wrong. He knew, to a certain degree, maybe it was. But he was desperate. He wanted to understand. 

Because he couldn’t believe what was churning between them had any real semblance of actuality unless he saw everything. Unless he understood the very basis that made Sam who he was. Made Sam feel the way he did. Because Sam was offering something no one had ever offered before. Because Sam cared. 

So he opened the box.

Inside were a few odds and ends. An old snow globe and some faded photos. A hand-plaited bracelet and some movie ticket stubs. He pulled each item out slowly, curiously. Touched the images with the beds of his fingers, slid the bracelet against his skin. After slipping the small packet of well-read letters, he came to the portion of the box that held the most interest. A cassette tape of some sort. A home video. 

Before he had the chance of considering his actions, he was heading towards the living room, curiosity boiling in his stomach like a monstrous thing. He opened the case, slipped the movie into the old VHS player, and pressed play. 

After a few crackling seconds, the screen lit up a mildly distorted, terribly composed clip of what appeared to be a summer cottage. There was laughing, all familiar. A combined effort between a much younger, brighter Sam, and a youthful, full-lipped, leather-clad Dean. The eldest had his arm slung around the other, both with beers in their hands as they laughed about something the camera hadn’t picked up. Leaning against the Impala that hadn’t changed a bit. 

“Do you really have to document this shit?” Dean asked, looking up. 

“Of course I do,” said the voice behind the camera. Sweet and feminine. “Not everyday your baby brother scores a 174 on the LSAT’s. We’ll need something to look back on when we’re miserable adults.”

“Real optimistic.”

“You’re not the one who wants to be a lawyer.”

“Ah, touché.”

The camera zoomed in on Sam choppily. “And how’re you feeling, genius? Any of this sinking in?”

He smiled, genuine and perfect, smooth and pink and young as he was at the time. It made Castiel’s heart swell with some strange, unknown emotion. “You could say that.”

“Good cause I was starting to think this was some clever excuse to get me out in the middle of nowhere so you could ravish me or something.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, turning towards her fully. “Think I’m that kinda guy?”

“I dunno,” she said, camera dropping low as she slotted herself in the space between his legs. “Are you?”

“Guys, I’m literally right here.”

There was that embarrassed flush in Sam’s cheeks. The blissful glow in those green eyes. “Sorry man. It’s all her, I swear.”

“Right, cause I totally believe that.”

The tape flickers black again for a short moment before starting up once more, though this time the setting had changed. It’s inside, warm and comfortable, most likely the cabin they were staying in. Sam was slow dancing in front of a large fireplace with the girl Cas had known to be Jess. All blond curls and cut-off shorts. Both smiling like the world could end at that moment and it wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest. Cas watched them, mesmerized, but feeling as if he should have looked away. That he was staring into something so intensely personal that the very thought of breaching the moment could break it entirely. 

“And here we have Sammy depicting another perfectly executed chick flick moment. How’re we doing tonight, kiddos?”

Sam turned towards the camera, clearly annoyed by the jest. Jess, on the other hand, just smiled that same unimaginable smile. “Stick around, short stop. You might actually learn something.”

“The lady wounds me,” he responded, the camera tilting through an obvious gesture. “Does my charm and boyish good looks overwhelm you so much you’ve resorted to grade school flattery? How cute.”

Sam gave him a quick glare while Jess rolled her eyes, smiling like she’d heard it one too many times before. Maybe she had. After all, it was Dean. 

“I might’ve actually thought you were cute once upon a time ago,” she said, sliding her arms further around Sam’s neck. “But that ego is a hell of a turn off.”

“And that smart mouth of yours aint doing you any favors, sweetheart.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam said, all eyes for her. “I kinda like that smart mouth.”

Jess smiled, once again genuine and full of what Cas could only describe as love. It was obvious how well they meshed. How well she handled Dean. Jess could not only keep up with the boys but she could keep them in place. It was no wonder the whole picture shattered when she was no longer there to tape up the cracks.

What caught him off guard though wasn’t just that they were together or that they were happy. It was that, for whatever reason, they couldn’t stay this way. That moments like these where everything seems okay and right and perfect could be so easily broken. That things could be taken away without considering the absolute significance of getting what you want. What you need. 

The camera cut, this time to the two brothers jumping off the edge of the dock in swim shorts, Jess laughing loudly behind the camera before hooting her appreciation. It was sunny and warm and the sky was a brilliant cyan like some perfect painting, and it felt like nothing Cas had ever felt before. 

This was what it must have felt like to be alive. Truly alive. Not this bordering into the strange unknown. Not the first tastes of rebellion. He wanted this. Family and love. He wanted it and that feeling was more overwhelming than anything had ever been before. He wasn’t certain who he was, or if he deserved it, or if anyone deserved it for that matter, but he wanted it. And it made clear, perfect sense for the first time since he’d boarded that train.

“What are you doing?”

He froze, knowing full well the voice over his shoulder because it was the same voice in the home video. The same voice he’d been listening to for the past three weeks. Sam’s voice pulled him from the television and made awareness sink in past the raging idealism. 

“Sam, I-.”

“You went through my things?”

Cas turned and looked up. Turned because he expected he would be met with anger, or disappointment. Steely eyes and hardened shoulders. These things were private. Things that Sam had kept hauled in tight. Things he shouldn’t have touched and yet here they were, two steps away from total collapse and Castiel was making sure it was a mutual destruction. He turned and yet those eyes weren’t cold. They were tired. 

“You won’t find it in there,” he said then, hoisting plastic bags into the kitchen. “The missing piece.”

“You think I’m looking for a missing piece?” he asked, deliberating. Watching as Sam put away groceries mechanically and with the same exhausted lilt in his shoulders. In each cumbersome step. 

“Aren’t you?”

The truth was he wasn’t even really sure he knew if he were looking for anything, least of all an answer. But it sounded like Sam had spent a great deal of his own time searching for something. 

“Why did you push Dean away?” he asked suddenly. Quick before he had the chance of overthinking it. “You were close. He was there for you.”

“He tried too hard,” Sam said, stilling. “Wanted too much.”

“Wanted to find a missing piece.”

Sam’s shoulders raised, facing Cas. “So what if he did? Dean never stopped to think that maybe I hadn’t lost anything. That I couldn’t be fixed. I’m not the crashed car he could put back together.”

“But you’re his brother,” Cas deliberated. “You have to know that counts for something.”

Sam rested his hands against the counter, turning his eyes down as he breathed through his nose in few soft drags. When he looked up, there was a pale gleam to his already sallow cheeks. “But that doesn’t mean it works.”

“He loves you.”

“That doesn’t mean it works.”

Cas stopped, deliberated. Let the meaning behind those words sink in just a little bit further. The only truth that mattered was the one that could set him free. 

“We’re all broken things,” he said, measuring the space between words by the flickers in the old, faded image onscreen. “And we do everything we can for each other because that’s what broken things do. There is meaning in cleaning up someone else’s mess. There is meaning in hoping someone will bother cleaning yours.”

Sam walked towards him then, his lips parting before closing, then opening again as the distance cleared. When he spoke, he sounded exasperated. “Is that what you’re doing, Cas? Trying to clean up my messes?”

“Yes.” No doubt in the answer. All conviction. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do. It’s the very thing you offered me.”

This stilled him, tall and powerful as he was. Sam looked at Cas like he’d been shot, that furrowed brow carrying a far larger weight than just confusion. Sam was befuddled, and he was beautiful. 

“You kissed me. You kissed me and you touched me like it meant something to you,” he said, no longer fearing the topic with absolute certainty. “Did it mean something to you, Sam Winchester? Does any of this mean anything to you?”

“It’s not like that,” Soft and confused. Sam’s brow was furrowed, eyes catching low at Castiel’s lips as he shuffled from one foot to the next. “I-I _need_ something from you and I can’t put it into words but God, I wanna take it. All of it. I wanna take it and I don’t even know what it is.”

The electric heat was quick and precise, muscles tense as he felt those eyes size him up once more. Hazy and confused and all dominating eyes that made his mouth water and his teeth clench. This feeling was different. Overwhelming, yes, but different in the way that he wasn’t keeping his back straight and his fists clenched on purpose anymore. That happened all on it’s own. 

“You want something, Winchester?” he asked, pushing at Sam’s shoulder forcefully. It made the younger man fall back a step, confusion sweeping into something else. Maybe anger. Maybe lust. Undeterminable. “Take it.”

Sam stepped forward, glaring down cause he was mountain tall and so broad. Stepping forward so the only thing Cas could feel was the tight draw of breath. The suffocating reality that this man could be so close and so all consuming and he brought it on himself. 

“You’d like that, huh?” he said, challenging. “No questions asked. No decisions. Maybe it’s time you made your own choices, New York.”

“Easy for you to say.”

A gruff laugh was what met him, surly and unkind. Maybe he deserved that. 

Before anything more could be made of the circumstance, Sam stepped back completely, turning back towards the kitchen where he began emptying the plastic bags of their contents once more. As if nothing happened. The air cleared but the tightness stayed the same. 

“Whatever this is between you and I will have to be addressed one day,” Sam said, opening the fridge door where he deposited a carton of orange juice. “It’s your choice when that day might be.”

He had no answer to that. Only the inkling to run away. He wanted to love and be loved and he knew from the start he wasn’t going to find that here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this, guys! I realize it's been a little over a year since I last updated this but I can guarantee you I'm gonna finish it. I've just been so insanely busy with life and school and work and family and just, yeah. I miss writing and I need it so I'm gonna finish this one way or another. 
> 
> For anyone still sticking around, thank you so much for continuing to read this. For anyone else, you can expect this wip to be finished.


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